


There's Nothing I'm Running From

by lenaballena



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Multi, believe it or not this was my attempt at keeping things short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-02 12:31:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2812085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lenaballena/pseuds/lenaballena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre and Courfeyrac run the Amazing Race. It's either the best idea they've ever had, or the worst mistake they've ever made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [corntobewild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/corntobewild/gifts).



> the prompt was "The Amazing Race AU where Courferre are an unbeatable dream team (and totally win the $1 million at the end). Combeferre has the puzzle and trivia components down. Courfeyrac has an amazing sense of direction and the ability to charm the locals. Both are multilingual. The two of them combined have the best set of skills out of all of the other teams and totally dominate the competition. (This is essentially all I have ever wanted and more. I will bow down to you if you do it as a fic, fanmix, art, whatever. I WILL LOVE YOU.)"
> 
> In this monster of a fic I have stayed true, for the most part, to all the rules and requirements of the Amazing Race, and almost all of the locations were featured in the Amazing Race at some point in the past 25 seasons. Also I watched one episode wherein they slept in a train station and went overboard with exactly how often that would occur. 
> 
> Amazing Race Useful Terminology:
> 
> route info - general clue that may include a task  
> detours - choice of two tasks, teams are free to choose or swap between ( i was not aware teams knew what the detours were before they chose until halfway through writing this and decided to ignore that aspect)  
> roadblocks - only one team member can complete the challenge and they decide who it will be before before they know everything about it  
> speed bumps - penalty for finishing last in a non-elimination leg  
> pit stop - final destination in each leg of the race

It starts, as most life-changing experiences do, with the two of them sitting, bored out of their minds, in their living room.

They’re doing a trial run to see how Combeferre and Courfeyrac film and interact on camera, which apparently means being interviewed in the wee hours of the morn and a camera crew in their apartment as Enjolras watches amusedly from the kitchen. The interview takes place on the living room, on the couch they found beside a dumpster and in front of the wall that’s been decorated with posters left over from various rallies and protests, with Combeferre’s arm slung over the back of the couch and their knees knocking together comfortably. They give their names, explain why they prefer to go by their last instead of first, talk about their jobs and hobbies, pretty standard info, really. It’s very comfortable and they seem to get along well with camera crew that has been assigned to them for the extent of the race: a no-nonsense but altogether entertaining woman named Eponine and her partner Marius, who looks like a breeze could knock him over but carried a couple hundred pounds’ worth of filming equipment into the apartment by himself. The interviewer, Susan, is a different kind of pleasant; the kind that’s only actually nice when the camera’s rolling. 

“Alright, now to the good stuff.” She says, flipping the page of questions on her clipboard. “How did the two of you meet?”

Courfeyrac nudges Combeferre in the side, and he grins softly in response. “We’ve actually known each other since first grade.” 

“Well, _technically,”_ Courfeyrac says, “We knew each other from first to eighth grade, then from freshman year of college until now, since _someone_ moved away before high school and can’t write a letter to save his life.” He turns back to the camera, explaining, “We kind of fell out of touch for a couple of years, because ‘ferre can’t be bothered to maintain a Facebook or check his email, so we had no idea we were going to the same college until freshman orientation.”

Susan makes a pleased humming noise before she smiles at them and says, “So, would you say fate brought you together?”

“Oh, definitely.” Courfeyrac smiles as he pokes the side of Combeferre’s face, and Combeferre crinkles his nose in response. “Can’t imagine life without this nerd.”

Susan looks to Combeferre to confirm, and he blinks at her through the lenses of his glasses before glancing to Courfeyrac and shrugging. “He’s alright, I suppose.”

Courfeyrac laughs and shoves at his chest affectionately. “Don’t listen to him, he thinks I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to the world.”

“I think I’ll leave that mentality in your capable hands, actually.”

There’s a soft snort of laughter from the kitchen, where Enjolras is turning the page of the morning paper, and Courfeyrac rolls his eyes at both of them. Combeferre hums distractedly, and the hand slung over the back of the couch begins to play idly with Courfeyrac’s hair, tangling the curls at the base of his neck. 

“Well, every year we get teams who turn out to be not quite as compatible as they thought they were, which can lead to some tension and ultimately elimination.” Susan continues, with a glance to her clipboard. “Do you think you’re in it for the long run?”

Enjolras chuckles from the kitchen, and Courfeyrac fights the urge to smile; it’s not easy to let a pun like that go unappreciated, but he ignores it, answering slowly, “Jeez, no pressure or anything.” Susan smiles obligingly, and he continues, “Well, I think everyone likes to think they’re gonna be ridiculously awesome and own the competition, and most of them go up in flames half way through the race, so I’m not gonna make any promises. I can say, though, that there’s no one in the world I’d rather do this with. I think we can really go the distance.” This time, Combeferre catches the joke as well, and his lips turn up in a faint smirk.

“I certainly hope so.” Susan says, fingers tapping against the edge of her chair. “Maybe we can even expect rings in your future.” She says this with a tentative air, leaning forwards slightly, obviously invested in their answer.

Courfeyrac blinks at her. “Rings?”

“Oh, no pressure.” She says, quoting Courfeyrac as she leans in conspiratorially and stage-whispers, “But it’s been a while since we’ve had a proposal on the Race, and I can tell you there are some _very_ romantic locations ahead of you.”

Oh.

_Oh._  

Combeferre’s hand moves slowly out of Courfeyrac’s hair, and a small laugh escapes Courfeyrac’s lips. “Oh, no-“ He shakes his head as it clicks into place. He knows what Susan was trying to do; by bringing up an engagement to a couple that’s obviously been together for a long amount of time, she’d be forcing both of them to consider the possibility of engagement, and possibly have different stances on the matter, providing for a bit of tension in the interview and race. Tension sells. It’s funny, of course, because, “We’re not… together. I mean, best friends, sure.” He grins at Combeferre, who looks incredibly uncomfortable at the direction the conversation has taken. “But we’re not dating.”

“You’re…” Susan breaks off, looking down at her clipboard again, eyes widening slowly as she backtracks, “Oh I am so sorry, these were the questions for the high school sweethearts from Minnesota, I must have picked them up instead of yours-“

Courfeyrac shrugs. “Easy mistake to make.”

A mistake that happens pretty damn often; Courfeyrac probably gets asked if he’s dating Combeferre at least once a week. It’s understandable, really. They’re obviously close, and Courf’s a… tactile person, to say the least. Combeferre’s nice enough to oblige Courfeyrac when he gets cuddly and clingy, which tends to mislead people about the nature of their relationship. In fact, his last girlfriend had a lot of issues with the way he and Combeferre acted around each other. Or maybe she just had issues with Combeferre in general. He’s never been entirely sure.

Susan apologizes at least three times, and then steers the interview back on track, asking them what they’ll do with the million dollars if they win and tries to wriggle a tragic backstory out of Combeferre (who, by the way, grew up just fine raised by a single mom, and even if he didn’t is hardly one to say as much to who knows how many interested viewers), and it’s over soon after that. Courfeyrac is tempted to ask Marius and Eponine to stay for dinner and a cuddle pile on the couch, but decides it’d be rude to ask them and not Susan, even if they’ll most likely never see her again. They show the three of them to the door, and Enjolras waves distractedly from the kitchen, before Combeferre trudges back into the living room and onto the couch, where Courfeyrac joins him by placing his head in his friend’s lap.

“Well I think that went well.”

Combeferre snorts, tilting his head down to look at Courfeyrac, eyebrows raised and strands of hair falling to bump against the frames of his glasses. “She asked us about our nonexistent engagement plans.”

“Eh, it’s no big.” Courfeyrac shrugs, reaching up to poke Combeferre’s nose, and smiling as his face scrunches in response. “Not like we’re not used to it, right?”

Frowning slightly, Combeferre asks, “What do you mean?”

“C'mon. You can’t tell me no one’s ever asked you if we’re dating.” Courfeyrac says simply, then pauses as Combeferre looks no less confused than before. “Wait, seriously? I get it, like, daily. The first thing people want to know before they chat me up is if my six-foot-something boyfriend is gonna go apeshit on them for trying.”

“They… no.” Combeferre says, looking away from Courfeyrac. “Though I can’t say anyone has ever tried to chat me up.”

“They would, but they’re too afraid of your five-foot-seven boyfriend to try.” Courfeyrac says, flexing his nonexistent arm muscles significantly, and Combeferre grins down at him. “Or they might just be afraid of _you_ , seeing as you go around glaring at people all the time.”

“I- I do not-“ Combeferre stammers indignantly, “That’s just my _face.”_

Courfeyrac laughs, reaching his fingers to trail along the hairs prickling along the edge of Combeferre’s jawline. “I kid. You are very chat-upable, but simultaneously intimidating. Totally rocking the hot librarian look.”

“And it doesn’t bother you?”

“Your hotness?” Courfeyrac snorts. “No offense, but have you _seen_ Enjolras? Nothing could damage my self-esteem more than his irritatingly perfect… everything.”

From the kitchen, Enjolras gives him a quick salute of acknowledgement, and Combeferre chuckles softly. “Understandable, but I was asking if you were bothered by people assuming we’re a couple.”

Courfeyrac smiles as Combeferre’s hands begin to tentatively thread through his hair. “Why would I be?”

Combeferre hums in response, fingers ghosting along Courfeyrac’s ear down to trail lightly against his jaw. “I can’t think of a reason.”

 

\--- 

Almost an hour later, when Joly and Bossuet are letting themselves into the apartment with Grantaire in tow, Courfeyrac and Combeferre haven’t moved.

Grantaire walks into the foyer, takes one look at the way Combeferre is petting Courfeyrac’s hair, and groans. “Oh god, you’re worse than these two.” He says, nodding to where Bossuet is holding the end of Joly’s scarf and Joly is pirouetting out of it.

“Good morning to you too, grumpy face.” Courfeyrac says, ignoring Joly and Bossuet’s presence because they have come to help them with their daily physical training and Courfeyrac is morally obligated to put that off as much as possible. Grantaire’s eyes roll in his version of a greeting, then slide over the apartment, obviously looking for Enjolras. Almost as if summoned, the blond emerges from the kitchen, wearing the maroon crop-top he blatantly stole from Courfeyrac and a pair of Combeferre’s pajama pants that are far too long for his legs, somehow managing to scowl and look bored at the same time as he eats black olives out of the can. His eyes flick to Grantaire, and as much as he tries to look unimpressed, Courfeyrac knows for a fact that he heard Grantaire’s voice and came rushing out. 

Grantaire visibly brightens at Enjolras’ presence, as if all he needs to be happy is a grungy grumpy blond eating canned olives at ten in the morning. “Enjolras,” He says slowly, the side of his mouth pulling up in a grin. “Have I ever told you how much olive you?”

Enjolras blinks at him. “Weak.” He glances to Joly and Bossuet, who are wielding matching yoga mats. “Hey, guys.”

“Morning.” Joly chirps, smiling widely. “Are you joining us for Pilates?” 

Enjolras makes a face like he’d rather vote Republican, and shakes his head. “I’m a bit busy, but definitely some other time. “ A blatant lie. The only physical activities Enjolras partakes in are marching in protests and running from the police. “I’ll be in my room if you need anything.”

He turns to walk down the hallway, and Grantaire doesn’t bother giving any excuses, just follows after the blond, calling softly, “Hey enje, wanna disagree about protest strategies s’more?” and laughing as Enjolras just groans in response.

As soon as the oblivious duo disappear, Bossuet clicks his tongue in disapproval. “It’s like the only people who don’t realize that Enjolras and Grantaire are completely gone for each other are Enjolras and Grantaire.” 

Joly sighs, long and pointed. "If only they'd just wake up, tell each other how they feel, everything would be so much easier..."

"But they don't think their feelings are reciprocated." Bossuet shakes his head, and Courfeyrac has the distinct feeling he's missing an important part of this conversation. "Which is ridiculous, because  _anyone with eyes_ could-"

"You guys." Combeferre interrupts, voice stern and controlled. "Enough. Let Enjolras and Grantaire sort things out their own way."

Bossuet and Joly exchange one of their Looks, and Joly shakes his head in quiet disapproval, before kneeling down and flicking out his yoga mat significantly. "Well, if it's what 'Enjolras and Grantaire' want, then I guess we'll just have to."

And Courfeyrac is sincerely confused by what they are- and  _aren't-_ saying, but then Joly is walking over and pulling him to his feet, and he forgets his confusion in favor of complaining about physical exercise and how it should be illegal.


	2. Meet The Teams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Excerpt From Official Episode Transcript

PHIL KEOGHAN: Soon, twenty-two people will embark on a high-stakes race around the world… competing for the grand prize of one million dollars. The contestants will be racing without the help of laptops or cell phones. They've been stripped of all money, credit cards and maps. Their greatest resource will be each other as they circle the globe in teams of two. These eleven brand new teams are in for the adventure of a lifetime as they compete for a chance to win… The Amazing Race.

_PHIL [voiceover]: Walker and Sammy, high school sweethearts._

Walker: We’ve been together since highschool, and I promised her I’d give her an adventure before I married her so, win or lose, soon as we’re done here she’s dragging me down the isle.

Sammy: We’re both truckers from Minnesota, so we’ve dealt with snow covered roads and had our share of near death experiences. We can handle anything this race wants to throw at us. Can’t we, baby?

_PHIL [voiceover]: Chase and Chantz, fraternity brothers._

Chantz: We have done some crazy sh*t in our time, some _crazy_ sh*t, and we thought what could we do to top everything else we’ve done? The Amazing Race.

Chase: We’re just here to have fun and kick ass, so watch out world, because we’re coming for you.

_PHIL [voiceover]: Jean and Cosette, father and daughter._

Cosette: There’s this bond that you have when you’re the only child of a single parent, because he’s not just my dad, he’s my best friend. And when you’ve been through the kinds of things we have, everything else is like ‘c’mon world, bring it on! Show me what you got!’

Jean: Every parent dreams of giving their kid the world, and now I think I finally have that chance.

_PHIL [voiceover]: Natalia and Gabrielle, newlyweds._

Gabrielle: I’m a tattoo artist, and she’s a disney princess. Literally.

Natalia: For the past three years I’ve worked at Disneyland, playing Pocahontas.

Gabrielle: I deal with angry bikers and drunk college kids, she wrangles hordes of screaming six year olds hopped up on churros and cotton candy. We can do _anything_.

_PHIL [voiceover]: Ben and Emeli, beekeepers._

Emeli: We were pretty confident about running the race, and then we saw the other teams.

Ben: What are we doing here? These people are so intimidating! We spend all of our time talking to bees, we can’t do this.

Emeli: We will try, though.

_PHIL [voiceover]: Vicente and Glen, soccer dads._

Glen: Ever heard of a soccer dad? It’s like a soccer mom, but with worse hair.

Vicente: You try evenly distributing orange slices, juice boxes, and granola bars to fifty exited ten year-olds, then you tell me we don’t have what it takes to make it to the finish line.

Glen: We’ve got the mentality, the muscles, and the minivan. Bring it on.

_PHIL [voiceover]: Combeferre and Courfeyrac, activists._

Combeferre: We’ve participated in lie-ins, die-ins, marches, protests, and been chased by the police more than a few times.

Courfeyrac: The hardest part of the race is gonna be getting people to pronounce our names right; everything else we can totally handle. He’s the brains, I’m the charm. We got this.

_PHIL [voiceover]: Grace and Chami, musicians._

Chami: We’re both super classical, and we just want to change the stereotype, show the world that women of color can compose a symphony or rock a hard core cello solo.

Grace: People told us we couldn’t make it on the Amazing Race, just like they told us to leave the music world in the hands of men.

Chami: People should really stop thinking they can tell us what to do.

_PHIL [voiceover]: Barbara and Lawrence, married art teachers._

Barbara: We’re all about the environment, so we bike everywhere, and we have a pretty impressive yoga regimen. We can more than handle the physical and mental aspects of the race.

Lawrence: You know what they say, age before beauty!

_PHIL [voiceover]: Clay and Meagen, brother and sister._

Meagen: Everyone who knows us always says ‘oh my god, you two would be _perfect_ for the Amazing Race’.

Clay: We’re winners, we come from a family of winners, and this is just another challenge for us to be incredible at.

Meagen: We’re not very good at being humble, but that’s just because we’re really confident. We’re gonna win this.

_PHIL [voiceover]: Bahorel and Milo, firefighters._

Bahorel: We’re volunteer firefighters, so we’re not even getting _paid_ to run into burning buildings.

Milo: We fight fires for free, imagine what we’ll do for a million dollars.

Bahorel: Pretty much anything. Short of shaving my head.

Milo: Oh, yeah, we’re pretty proud of our hair. Anything else is fair game, though.


	3. Leg 1: United States to Argentina

Courfeyrac glances around the group of people lined up along the fountain of the Grand Park, all staring eagerly at Phil as he explains their opportunity to double the prize money (!!!) if they come in first during the first and last legs of the race. It somewhat hinders Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s plans to bide their time by staying under the radar and not establish themselves as a threat until halfway through the race, but if they’re being honest, the two of them are far too competitive to have gone through with that. 

“Across from this fountain is the performance lawn, where you will find a troupe of dancers. Each team has been given patterned handkerchiefs, and they each match a man’s tie and a woman’s hair bow. They will find the man and woman dancing together whose accessories match their handkerchief, and bring them back here, where they will receive a pair of tickets, and drive themselves to Los Angeles International Airport. The first five teams to bring their dancers to me will leave on the first flight, and the remaining six will leave forty-five minutes later. Remember, the world is waiting for you.” He raises his arm, pausing for emphasis, and Courfeyrac crouches in preparation, an instinct left over from a season of running track in high school. “Good luck… travel safe… _go!_ ”

And then he’s running, beside Combeferre at first, then ahead of him, because Combeferre might have longer strides than he does, but Courfeyrac has always been a sprinter. He pulls the handkerchief they were given out of his pocket; it’s white, detailed by swirling dark blue patterns, and he holds it above his head, shouting back to his best friend, “We’re looking for this!”

They reach the entrance to the performance lawn and Courfeyrac pauses briefly to look over the hundreds of dancers, spinning flowing skirts and circling each other and moving from place to place as quickly as the dance style allows. His first Amazing Race challenge.

_God,_ this is awesome.

“The couples are moving in the same two rows; backwards, to the right, forwards, to the left.” Combeferre says quietly, stepping into place beside him.

Courfeyrac nods, and the two of them split up wordlessly, taking opposite sides of the crowd and working their way in. Courfeyrac scans the dancers, moving with the rows and apologizing as he throws them off rhythm occasionally. Handkerchief in hand, he compares it to the men’s criss-crossing traditional ties and the women’s trailing hair bows, almost pulling a couple of out line when he thinks he’s found a match, but realizing the man’s tie is detailed with dark purple, not blue.

As he reaches the third row, he hears three sharp notes whistled into the air, and looks up immediately; for years, even though Enjolras and Courfeyrac can’t whistle to save their lives, the  whistle has been one of their signals to regroup when a rally or protest gets out of hand.

Courfeyrac’s eyes find Combeferre in seconds and then he’s moving, past rows of dancers and frantic racers, and skidding to a stop beside Combeferre and the smiling couple. Courfeyrac compares the handkerchief to their accessories, smiling at Combeferre for a second before they’re running again, back to Phil and, hopefully, the first flight to wherever the hell they’re headed.

“Combeferre and Courfeyrac.” He says slowly when they reach him, obviously having practiced the pronunciation of their names, “You’re on the first flight!”

The air rushes out of Courfeyrac’s lungs in a shuddering exhale of laughter, as the adrenaline begins to blur around his brain. Combeferre reaches for the tickets, for of them, two for the team and two for the camera crew, who fall into step behind them as they run to the circle of backpacks waiting for them, then pile into the cars left for them outside the park. In order to get the two of them in the same shot, Courfeyrac and Combeferre have to sit on the same side of the car, so he climbs in behind the driver’s seat with Marius beside him.

“We’re on the first flight!” Courfeyrac says through his smile as the car stars with an even hum. “I mean, of course we are, we’re ridiculously awesome.”

“There’s another team in front of us,” Combeferre replies, putting the car into reverse and glancing in the rearview mirror. “There was a set of backpacks missing.”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “We’ll all be on the same flight, we can worry about racing people when it actually matters.” Flipping open the ticket books, he scans the tickets quickly, humming excitedly. “We’re going to Argentina!” He whips his head around to look into the backseat. “Have you guys ever-“ Courfeyrac cuts off as Eponine shakes her head once and Marius just looks startled. “Are we really supposed to just pretend you don’t exist?”

Eponine nods, mouthing, “It ruins the illusion.”

“Um, okay then.” Courfeyrac leans forward to rest his chin on the back of Combeferre’s seat. “We’re going to Argentina!”

“Assuming I can find the airport, obviously.” Combeferre says, pulling onto first street. “Do the tickets have any kind of directions, or should we pull over and ask?”

Courfeyrac flips through the booklet, pulling out a slip of paper, eyes scanning over it quickly. “It just says take I-110.” He hums. “LAX is kind of a big deal, there’ll probably be signs for it once we get on the highway.”

“Let’s hope.”

\--- 

The team before them turns out to be the firefighters whose names he can’t remember, one of them wearing their red and white handkerchief tied loosely around his neck and leaning over the  ticket counter, and as they approach Courfeyrac hears him ask, “And if there’s any way we can be upgraded to first class free of charge, I’d really appreciate it.” as he flexes his (rather considerable) muscles just this side of subtly. 

The lady behind the counter laughs and shakes her head, and the firefighter tuts in mock disappointment, before turning around and lighting up as he sees Combeferre and Courfeyrac walking towards him. “Ey, fellow first-flighters!” He’s tall, though Combeferre maybe has an inch or two on him, with skin half a shade darker than Courfeyrac’s and hair shaved short on both sides and a tiny messy bun holding the long hair in the middle together. His nose has obviously been broken a couple times, and he’s got a dark beard outlining his jaw and a wide, open smile. Courfeyrac likes him already. Scooping his backpack up from the floor, he slings it over his shoulder and steps toward them. “You’re one of the C-C teams, I know that. But I’m pretty sure you’re _not_ the frat dudes?”

“Courfeyrac,” He says, gesturing to himself, then as Combeferre walks past neckerchief guy to the ticket counter, he points at his best friend’s back. “And that’s Combeferre.”

“My brothers in arms,” He grins, holding out a large, sturdy hand attached to ridiculously muscular arms. “I’m Bahorel. And my running partner, Milo, had to take a piss but he’ll be here in a tic.” Looking behind him to the two people filming behind him, he stage-whispers, “The two with cameras and expensive looking technology behind me are Ana Louisa and Feuilly, but they don’t like it when you look or talk to them. Mighty strange folk, those two.”

Courfeyrac laughs, nodding back to his own filming crew. “Marius and Eponine have the same problem. Must be something in the water.”

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre calls from the counter, interrupting their exchange. “Passports?”

Courfeyrac feels himself freeze, eyes wide. “I thought you had them.” Combeferre’s eyes widen almost dangerously for a moment, before Courfeyrac laughs. “Kidding, I’m _kidding_ , they’re right here.” Bahorel nods to him, moving out of the way so Courfeyrac can join Combeferre at the counter. “Breathe, ‘ferre.”

Rolling his eyes even as the corners of his mouth pull upward fondly, Combeferre gestures for the passports, and Courfeyrac slides them into his hands before turning to look around the airport. The paperwork and scheduling and details nonsense is Combeferre’s area of expertise; he seems to actually like doing it, and it only ever bores and confuses Courfeyrac.

The next two who come strolling into the ticket area are bickering as they do, and Courfeyrac recognizes them as the father-daughter pair. He also notices that Marius visibly brightens when they walk in, and begins adjusting his clothes and hair nervously. He’s genuinely adorable, that one.

“-am more than capable of carrying it myself.” The girl huffs, and her father just waves her off, both of their backpacks slung over his shoulder.

“Of course you are. But there’s no need for you to be weighed down when I can just carry them both.”

They make quite a pair, the two of them. He’s taller than both Bahorel and Combeferre, dark skin and formidable muscles and a rigid, controlled edge to his walk. She, on the other hand, is shorter than Courfeyrac with delicate limbs and a lightness to her every step, like she’s used to walking on clouds. What they have in common is their eyes, shining with compassion and the kind of gentle support and understanding you usually find in sixty-year-old women who work in children’s libraries.

They introduce themselves as Valjean and Cosette, and Courfeyrac loves Cosette immediately, because as she waits for Valjean to get their tickets, she pulls a strand of dark hair from her french braid and rests it between her lip and nose like a mustache, and only wriggles her eyebrows with a bubbly smile when she catches Courfeyrac watching her.

After Valjean and Cosette come Barbara and Lawrence, the married art teachers in their fifties or sixties, and Clay and Meagen, the brother-sister team who don't join their circle of trading introductions and cities of origin, opting instead to ignore them all and make a show of getting in line to board the flight, as if that somehow is something that matters.

\---

Courfeyrac can’t fall asleep.

The overnight flight is relatively empty, so Combeferre moved back a row to give them both more space to sleep in, but he can’t manage to find a comfortable position. More significantly, though, he can’t seem to quiet his mind as thoughts about potential countries and challenges buzz around his head. The loudest of them is knowledge that they have to win this first leg of the race, if they want to have the chance to win _two_ million dollars, and to have that kind of pressure sitting in the pit of his stomach and not being able to do anything about it is _torturous_. Legs sprawled across the three seats and blanket pulled up to his chin, he twists to glance across the aisle to where Cosette is curled up under Valjean’s protective arm, the tiny blanket spread over both of them and failing to cover either of their bodies completely. In the row in front of theirs, Barbara is asleep with her head in her husband’s lap; Lawrence, for his part, is snoring gently with his neck rolled to the side.

Sighing, he pulls himself up and leans around the back of his seat. Instead of sleeping, like Courfeyrac expected him to be, Combeferre is staring, eyes glazed and distant, at one of the napkins the flight attendants provided.

“Hey,” Courfeyrac whispers, breaking whatever mind-trance Combeferre was caught in, and smiling as he blinks back at him. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

Combeferre exhales in a faint ghost of a laugh, and grins lazily. “Shouldn’t you?”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “Can’t get comfy.”

Brow raising slightly in understanding, Combeferre lets out a slow breath. “Well, it will hardly be _more_ comfortable, but you’re welcome to sleep next to me,” He says slowly, smiling fondly as Courfeyrac slides out of his row and into Combeferre’s halfway through the offer. “If you want.”

Combeferre lifts his arm and Courfeyrac burrows into his side, breathing in the familiar scent of their laundry detergent and humming happily. Combeferre’s hand rests gently on his waist and it steadies Courfeyrac, slows his thoughts and subdues the nerves that had been scratching at his skin, unspoken doubts and worries drifting into nothingness as he sinks into Combeferre’s side.

\---

Argentina is very simply _gorgeous_.

When Courfeyrac wakes the next morning to the sound of Combeferre’s voice, quiet and low as he discusses the American criminal justice system with Valjean (an interesting topic for two strangers on a plane at seven in the morning, but Combeferre is an interesting man), the first thing he does is press himself to the window to see what they’re flying over. When he sees Argentina it’s all rivers and trees and burst of color, and he, not for the first time, thanks a variety of deities that he’s been given the opportunity to run this race.

After what feels like a lifetime spent in baggage claim and a taxi ride that has Courfeyrac biting on his lip to keep from telling the driver that they're kind of in a hurry so would he mind terribly accelerating every once in a while, they reach their first Roadblock.

_Who's Hungry_? It asks, and Combeferre's fingers slide over Courfeyrac's wrist as he reads. He knows they're both thinking the same thing; they're in Argentina, so the hungry person will most likely be eating Argentinian food, and Courfeyrac is vastly more accustomed to the style of cuisine than Combeferre, who refuses to eat menudo because he fundamentally distrusts it.

"I'll do it." Courfeyrac says, for the camera's benefit, because he and Combeferre have already decided.

_One team member will eat the entirety of a traditional Argentinian feast containing cow rib, pork sausage, blood sausage, cow intestine, cow udder, cow kidney and part of a cow's salivary gland. Once their plate is clean, they will be handed their next clue._

"A cow's salivary gland?" Courfeyrac grins at Combeferre, who looks vaguely ill just reading the words. "Bring it  _on_."

(Under the shade of a palm tree, with Meagen next to him, shoving food into her mouth, shuddering every time she chews, and swallowing roughly, Courfeyrac licks his fingers significantly as he finishes the last of his meal. He considered liking the plate as well, just to see how Meagen would react, but decides they don't really have time for all that. He's handed his clue and he beams at Combeferre, who's watching him with something akin to horror in his eyes, before blowing Meagen a kiss as he stands, thanks the chef, and pulls his best friend along; they've got a train to catch)

\---

Turns out, it's stunningly easy to travel in Buenos Aires when you speak Spanish and are, as Enjolras once put it, a 'walking ball of curly-haired charm'. On the train ride, he meets a group of fantastically dressed old ladies who tell him some fascinating things about their destination, el Rio Tigre, that he happily translates to Combeferre. From the station, they take a taxi from el Estacion San Fernando R to el Rio Tigre, and their driver gets them there in a little over ten minutes, avoiding the crowded streets and chatting to Courfeyrac about the riverside bars and entertainment venues as they drive. They're running so well on time that Combeferre only sighs impatiently once or twice while Marius gets the cab driver to sign the waiver forms so they don't have to blur out his face when the episode airs.

On the banks of the river, a breeze swirling lazily around them, they open their next clue and first Detour.

"Shipwreck or Island." Combeferre reads, tongue clicking thoughtfully against his teeth. "Have a preference?"

Courfeyrac considers it. "Not particularly." A beat. "But you gotta admit, Shipwreck sounds cooler."

\---

" _I'm on a boat._ " Courfeyrac sings, shoulders shimmying beneath his lifejacket as they skid jerkily over the surface of the water in a boat that's more of a raft with a propeller than anything truly seaworthy. " _I'm on a boat."_

Combeferre shakes his head, and he may be looking away and out into the river, but Courfeyrac can tell he's smiling. They emerge back onto the main course of the river after a quick trip into one of the bends, searching for the ruins of the ship pictured in the antique photograph Combeferre clutches tightly between his fingers. As Combeferre looks ahead, Courfeyrac glances behind them, trying to see if any of the other teams have arrived on the river bank, and he think he can just make out a group of people on the dock. Squinting, he tries to-

"No- _fuck-"_ Combeferre blurts out from beside him, and Courfeyrac turns just in time to see their reference picture whipping through the air and far away from them.

He exhales, grateful, not for the first time, for the time they saved getting to the river. This could take a while. "Well." He says, over the sound of wind pushing at his ears. "That was not ideal."

Combeferre doesn't respond, just looks ahead, his shoulders and back tense and Courfeyrac can practically  _feel_ his determination. After a minute, he commands, "Take a left here."

"You got this?" Courfeyrac asks simply, as the boat shifts to the side, and Combeferre hums his agreement. Courfeyrac nods; good enough for him.

They find the ship within ten minutes, rusting and looming over them and into the water, and Combeferre doesn't bother looking anything but smug as the old sea captain splashes into the water, rubber boots and all, and hands them their next clue.

\---

It's not exactly surprising that they arrive at the Pit Stop twenty minutes before any other team, but Courfeyrac is so excited he nearly tackles Combeferre to the ground when he hugs him, and even Eponine looks impressed.


	4. Leg 2: Argentina to Morocco

The soccer dads are eliminated in Argentina, and Courfeyrac is shocked (and more than a little embarrassed) when he realizes he didn't even know their names. They say their goodbyes, and it's awkward, and then there are ten teams boarding a plane to Morocco and Courfeyrac has other things to focus on.

Like, for example, the fact that Valjean and Cosette's boat had mechanical troubles as they were doing their Island challenge, so Valjean  _swam_ the rest of the way to the clue. Courfeyrac wants to know his superhero origin story. 

Courfeyrac isn’t quite used to sleeping on planes, but he’s getting there. Every team is on the same flight this time, which means the frat dudes laughing three rows behind him and the classical musicians in the row next to him, glaring daggers at them. He and Combeferre don’t bother trying to sleep in separate rows, and he wakes up to Combeferre’s fingers gently running through his hair.

They fly into Marrakech around noon, and the airport is _ridiculous_. Combeferre explains that it’s tourist season when they join the mob of people milling around, looking for, as the clue had put it, “The man in the trench coat”, who has their next clue.

It feels a lot like Where’s Waldo, except worse, because there is a crying child _somewhere_ who hasn’t stopped shrieking in the last ten minutes and someone rolls a suitcase over his foot and he has to witness a man shouting at a flight attendant simply because she doesn’t speak English and _god_ , Courfeyrac hates airports.

Pushing past a small, anxious family, Courfeyrac walks directly into someone and almost sends both of them tumbling to the ground.

“Oh my god, I’m so-“ He starts, before realizing they might not speak English. He takes a better look at the person, and that’s when he notices their outfit. A long, black, trench coat. In the heat of this mob. No way. “Wait, do you have a clue?”

Trench coat man pulls a yellow envelope from his pocket with a smile, and Courfeyrac mentally punches the air before running (well, running is a generous word; shuffling is perhaps more accurate) through the crowd to find Combeferre.

\---

Their first stop is a pottery stand in Amizmiz, and the unfriendly siblings and art teachers are already there, looking in and under every pot within reach for the clue. Valjean and Cosette and the firefighters run in next, and Cosette finds a clue in two minutes, which has Combeferre humming nervously next to him as the father and daughter run outside to rip it open and continue onto the next challenge. It takes them nearly twenty minutes to find the clue, simply because they somehow manage to look in precisely the wrong places. 

\---

“-would make such excellent Berbers.”  Courfeyrac grins, rolling out a long, thick, slightly weird smelling rug. 

The detour at Oumnasse Casbah was a choice between Camp or Cream, and Courfeyrac’s not sure what Cream entailed, but Camp involves setting up a Berber tent in the Moroccan landscape, complete with all the proper furnishings. Of course, Courfeyrac spent the last three summers as a camp counselor, where putting up tents properly was considered of higher importance than eating and sleeping, and Combeferre knows everything about everything including the Berber tradition, so they easily make up the time they lost searching for the first clue.

Combeferre hums thoughtfully, spacing out pillows around the table in the middle of the tent. “Not sure I could handle the nomadic lifestyle. Or goats. I’m not overly fond of goats.”

Courfeyrac gasps indignantly, his hand flying to his chest. “How dare you insult the noble goat.”

Snorting back a laugh, Combeferre surveys the tent. “I think we’re done- I’ll get the judge.”

“Goat hater!” Courfeyrac calls after him as he rushes through the entrance, and next to him, Marius snorts back a laugh.

\---

“Who has a knack for sliding things into place…” Courfeyrac says slowly, wiggling his eyebrows at Combeferre. “Tell me you’re thinking about the old Connect Four set, too.”

“Trying not to.” Combeferre grins. “I’ll take this one.”

“This one” turns out to involve Combeferre crossing rope and plank bridges that make Courfeyrac think of the scene in the Emperor’s New Groove when they almost plummet to their deaths, and zip-line across a canyon that makes him think of the episode of the Office when Toby breaks his neck zip-lining. Courfeyrac has a mild fear of heights, so he recognizes that it’s better that Combeferre does these awful things, but that doesn’t mean he’s happy about it. In fact, he spends the entire challenge biting his lip and clinging to Marius’ hand, who is kind enough not to remind him that, for all intents and purposes, he doesn’t exist.

They arrive third to the pit stop, and Courfeyrac refuses to let go of Combeferre’s hand for hours afterward.


	5. Leg 3: Morocco to France

They touch down in France just after eight in the morning, and when they go to claim their bags they find route clues hanging from the straps.

"Find the historical ferris wheel that was once the tallest in the world." Natalia reads aloud, as Gabrielle slides her own backpack onto her shoulders. " _Shit_ , I miss Google."

Combeferre chuckles, eyes glinting mischievously behind the frames of his glasses. He leans in to mutter, "This is gonna be easy, c'mon." into Courfeyrac's ear, before moving past him and out into the loading area. Their pace is awkward; not running, because there’s really no need in the crowded airport, but too full of competitive spirit and adrenaline for walking to suffice.

There are rows of taxis lined up outside, and Combeferre walks up to the nearest one and asks them how far it is to the Grande Roue, and when he realizes it's much too far to walk, asks if he'll take them there as fast as possible. All in French, of course, because both Combeferre and Courfeyrac speak the language. Something that shouldn't be surprising, given their names, but the other teams look shocked at their fluency, regardless.

The Detour offers the choice of _Rough Climb or Easy Walk_? And, though Combeferre seems suspicious of any challenge proclaiming itself as 'easy', they take the walk. Their task is to find a statue of a cat next to a Foucault pendulum, and Combeferre hums in amusement when they read the assignment. "They don't mention that there are _two_ Foucault pendulums in Paris. That's devious." He sounds impressed.

\---

"Who wants to get dirty?" Courfeyrac reads, when they receive their Roadblock clue, outside of the Panthéon. "Ooh, it's probably crushing grapes for wine or something, I'll do it."

It's not crushing grapes for wine.

It is, in fact, a charming jaunt through the Paris sewers from the Hôtel de Ville to the Place du Châtelet, two blocks away. Since he and Combeferre decided before the race that for Roadblocks or any occasion when they had to split up, Marius would film Courfeyrac and Eponine would film Combeferre, if for no other reason that their personalities were compatible.

So he trudges along with Marius, who looks vaguely ill. "Hypothetical question." He says, breaking the silence as they walk. "If I were to pass out, would you carry me back to the street or leave me to die."

Interesting question. Courfeyrac grins back at Marius, even though the other man can barely see his face. "You might not die. You might be found by a colony of sewer rats who, astounded by your intelligence and mastery of human languages and technology, would elect you sewer king."

"That's comforting." Marius says.

Courfeyrac nods, then something occurs to him. "Aren't you gonna be, like, fired for talking to me?" 

Marius makes an unconcerned noise. "I think protocol can be abandoned while I'm being dragged through the sewers, actually. And they'll only show maybe a few seconds of the sewer challenge in the final episode, all this time would just be cut out anyway."

Oh, well alright then. He and Marius continue their sewer trudge, and begin to discuss the political structures that colonies of sewer rats would be most inclined to conform to.

\---

They arrive in second place, just behind Valjean and Cosette who, unsurprisingly, are also fluent in French. Valjean also, apparently, completed the jaunt through the sewers in record time, getting them to the Pit Stop twenty minutes before Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

That night is the first night they sleep in an actual hotel, and Courfeyrac is so relieved he actually  _hugs_ their mattresses.  They get to sleep in beds, real beds, with pillows and comforters and mattresses and he feels like singing from the rooftops. There are two beds in their room, but he crawls in next to Combeferre anyway.

"What do you think Enjolras and Grantaire are doing right now?" He whispers, as if discussing their friends love lives counts as a reason for taking up space in Combeferre's bed instead of sleeping in his own.

Combeferre chuckles lowly, pulling Courfeyrac into his side in a smooth motion."Well, let's see, a late spring afternoon, probably... down at the Commons, walking together- and arguing, obviously, trying to pretend they aren't doing anything romantic."

Courfeyrac laughs, as he rests his head against Combeferre's collarbone. "Taking a swan ride together, but acting like they accidentally ended up in the same boat."

"Kissing on the bridge, but only ironically." Combeferre says, with a laugh that vibrates the hand Courfeyrac has draped over his chest.

Courfeyrac smiles, tangling their legs together. "Feeding each other grapes under the shade of a tree, but not, like, in a friend way. In an I-barely-tolerate-you-get-out-of-my-life way."

"Oh, of course," Is the last thing Courfeyrac hears before he's slipping silently into his first truly comfortable sleep in days.


	6. Leg 4: France to Germany

Courfeyrac was not adequately prepared for what constant travel and unfamiliar showers would do to his hair. He'd been under the impression that he'd be sleeping in hotels every night, at the very least, and have time to maintain his hair enough that it didn't look like the fur of a dead rat. He'd been so young, so new to the ways of the world. After a night spent on two different trains, the curls are either frizzy or deflated and his normally perfect bangs hang limply in front of his face. It’s just inconvenient, not to mention unflattering, so he ties them back with the handkerchief they were given in the first task. As the train to Austria rumbles along, he nudges Combeferre and gestures to the handkerchief wrapped around his forehead. “What do you think?”

Combeferre blinks at him, still a bit groggy from sleep. “Of what?”

“I need to keep my bangs out of my eyes.” He explains. “Is the headscarf Claire’s cheesy, Coachella trying too hard, or Harry Styles chic?”

“Um.” Combeferre blinks again, squinting at Courfeyrac’s hair, opening his mouth, then closing it again. “I have honestly no idea how to answer that.”

Courfeyrac sighs. Useless. “Useless.” He says, shaking his head at Combeferre. He looks over the top of the seats in front of him. “Cosette!” He hisses, across the rows. “ _Cosette!_ ”

Her head pops up over the seats, and the messy bun at the top of her head bounces with her. “Good morning,” She chirps, with a bright smile. “What’s up?”

“Opinion on the headscarf?”

She scrunches her nose thoughtfully, before smiling. “Definitely early Styles farmers-market snazzy.”

Courfeyrac blows her a kiss. “Thank you.” He sits back down beside Combeferre, who looks severely unimpressed. “Cosette’s replacing you as my partner in crime. You never call me snazzy.”

“And I never will.” He says, voice more tense than Courfeyrac was expecting, but he blames it on Combeferre’s hatred of mornings finally overcoming his desire to be prepared and alert for every day they spend racing.

 --- 

When they emerge from the train station with the four other teams, the sun is just barely drifting into the sky and they stagger quietly to the car left for them outside. Courfeyrac can’t understand the silence between them, where it came from or why it feels like a tangible, uncomfortable presence, but he also doesn’t know how to make it go away. So he overcompensates.

“You wanna drive?” He says, somewhat unnecessarily, because Combeferre is holding the car keys and opening the front driver’s side door, and he just nods his agreement. “I’ll get the map then. We can probably start out following the other teams, too. Of course, that’s assuming they know where they’re going, because we sure as hell don’t.”

“Helpful.” Combeferre says, turning on the car. The clue included instructions to get from Austria to Germany, and he follows them silently until they reach a long stretch of B187, when he reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out a map, handing it back to Courfeyrac a little less than gently. “Find out how to get to wherever we’re going.”

“Gasthof zum Rassen.” Courfeyrac reads slowly, and pronounces horribly. “Probably. How am I supposed to find that on a map? It says it’s a hotel; they don’t put hotels on maps, do they?” 

“I’d assume they’d put it on the map they’ve given us.” 

“Well, sure, you’d assume, but did they actually do it?” 

Combeferre groans in frustration as they move along, the scenery sliding peacefully past. “I don’t _know,_ Courfeyrac. Which way do I go?”

“I have no idea.” Courfeyrac says, scanning the map for anything that might tell them where they are. On top of the map someone has written ‘B23 to Gernackerstraße’. _Jesus Mary and Joseph_. “Okay, continue onto B23, which is… presumably a highway? Or a lane. And we’ll go from there to some horrible satanic vowel-less place and- I dunno. It’ll be around.”

Combeferre sighs, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. “It would be nice to have something more specific to work off of than _it’ll be around_.”

Courfeyrac feels Combeferre’s annoyance in the air, and it prickles at his skin. “Well, if you want to read the map while _I_ drive-“

“Yes, and then I can feel nauseated for the rest of the leg, that’ll work out well for us.” Combeferre snaps back at him.

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. “God, just say nauseous like the rest of the world.”

“You can’t _feel_ nauseous, nauseous is an adjective that describes something that _causes_ nausea-“

“I can think of some dictionaries that would disagree with you there, actually.”

“The definition was changed to fit the incorrect usage; that doesn’t make it correct.”

“That is literally _exactly_ what it does.”

Next to him, Marius looks startled, and Eponine is filming with a look on her face that flickers between confusion, amusement, and worry. This is gonna be a _long_ day.

 ---

Let it be known that Courfeyrac is never wrong. No matter what Enjolras says. When he has a bad feeling about bad days, he is always right, and the better option is always to have stayed in bed and wait for the good days to return. Some examples of this universal rule are as follows: the protest in the park when it hailed and he fell in the mud and Enjolras somehow managed to accidentally punch Combeferre in the face and virtually no one showed up, his sociology final when some kid managed to set the seat next to him on fire and the hall was evacuated and he had been two questions away from finishing the exam only to have all the booklets thrown out so they could retake the exam a week later, and their magical day in Germany.

They get horribly lost in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, whose very name seems to be mocking him as they drive from street to street, pulling over to speak in awkward English to confused townspeople because, of course, German is one of the few languages they _don’t_ have under their belts (“Didn’t you _date_ a German exchange student sophomore year? Didn’t he teach you anything?” “Terms of endearment and seduction, sure. How to navigate obscure mountain towns? _Not so fucking much_.”). One woman sends them out of town, another sends them to the Garmisch town centre, and an old man just looks at him in confusion and continues walking. After that, Courfeyrac realizes that he’s been asking the people of Garmisch-Partenkirchen for directions _to_ Garmisch-Partenkirchen, but decides not to bother Combeferre with that information.

Having left at seven-thirty, they pull up outside Gasthof zum Rassen at just before nine. Neither of them are happy.

As the four of them reach the building, Eponine taps Courfeyrac’s shoulder and nods towards the door, on which the hotel’s hours are posted.

“Oh.” He feels a little of his annoyance dissipate. “The hotel opens at eight-thirty. Even if we hadn’t gotten lost, we’d only have gotten our clue-“ He checks his watch. “Twenty-two minutes ago.”

“So the other teams probably have a twenty-two minute lead on us,” Is all Combeferre says in response, and the annoyance settles right back in at the back of Courfeyrac’s throat. They push open the doors, and-

Oh dear god in heaven.

There are very few things that could make a morning spent fighting with his best friend worse. 

One of those things is yodeling.

Courfeyrac thinks he makes a commendable effort to look like he’s enjoying the man screaming melodically into the air, especially because Combeferre doesn’t even bother hiding his disdain. Behind them, Eponine just stares incredulously at the folk band, before her face morphs into an echo of Combeferre’s, and Marius is beaming from ear to ear, watching them excitedly. Marius is a natural anomaly that shouldn’t exist, but somehow manages to.

The clue they find is a Detour, prompting _Fairy Tale or Champion Male?_ , and Combeferre chooses Fairy Tale without asking him. Admittedly, Champion Male sounds like it could be potentially embarrassing and/or involve stripping, and this is so very much not the time for that.

Combeferre reads the directions to the clue aloud, for the camera’s benefit as always, and then they’re hurrying, irritated, on their not-so-merry way.

\--- 

Fairy Tale involves the following: finding a wicker basket in an old storage thing at the base of a forest, following a path through dense forest cover, and picking up pieces of gingerbread they find along the way, ‘at least thirty’, the description says. Once they reach the top they’ll find a witch (?) and be tasked with roofing a gingerbread house with the broken pieces. Once they’re finished, the witch will inspect their work and, if she deems it acceptable, she’ll give them their next clue. Easy enough.

Except for, you know, the hiking up a forest trail picking up pieces of gingerbread and the way Combeferre is refusing to speak to him and Marius keeps _whistling_ until they hear a smacking sound and Courfeyrac knows without looking that Eponine hit him over the head with something.

The witch turns out to be really fucking scary; they hear her cackling before they see her, and Marius responds as Courfeyrac knew he would, nearly jumping out of his skin. She continues cackling even as they begin the challenge, which makes it just that much harder to concentrate. 

Natalia and Gabrielle are working on their own gingerbread house when they arrive, which just serves to put Combeferre in a worse mood, Courfeyrac knows, because the newlyweds left on the later train and arrived to the Detour before them.

When they begin working on the the gingerbread house, things go from worse to awful. They’re not allowed to leave spaces between the gingerbread pieces, and they’re all in weird, jagged, hard to fit together shapes. The pasty cookie mush they’re using to glue the pieces is hard to work with and dries slowly, so sticking pieces on proves a challenge, and did he mention there’s a giant fucking bubbling cauldron behind them and a witch occasionally scaring the shit out of everyone?

About ten minutes in, he hears Marius and Eponine talking in hushed tones. Or, to be more precise, Eponine hissing at Marius, “-not allowed to break character and they can’t do it, just _go_.”

He turns to see Marius walking off to talk to a couple of people who have wandered into the area, and he can’t hear much, but he sees Marius gesture back to them and to the cameras set up, and knows he’s explaining what they’re doing in this part of the area. In German. He’s shooing German passerby out of where they’re shooting, and he can do this because he speaks German. Courfeyrac immediately looks to Combeferre, whose mouth is hanging open.

Marius returns after a minute, and he’s almost at Eponine’s side when Combeferre cracks. He stares at Marius for a second, before half-growling, “You. Speak. _German_?” There’s a kind of careful fury in his eyes, the kind Courfeyrac is used to seeing when they hear about the world’s latest atrocities, so he doesn’t blame Marius in the slightest for the terrified look in his eyes as he takes an involuntary step back.

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. “You know he can’t help, _jesus,_ calm the fuck down.”

“He _speaks_ -”

Courfeyrac braces himself on the tables, the cold of the wood stinging his hands as he glares at Combeferre. “He could have the power to _teleport_ and we’d still be doing terribly because he’s _not allowed to help us._ So leave him the _fuck_ alone and help me put these crappy pieces of crappy gingerbread on this _crappy house._ ” He punctuates the end of his sentence by throwing a container of icing at Combeferre, who catches it instinctually as he stares, wide-eyed, at Courfeyrac.

Combeferre opens his mouth, obviously about to argue, before apparently thinking better of it, shaking his head like _Courfeyrac’s_ the one overreacting and scaring their film crew, and going back to glaring at gingerbread pieces.

 ---

Their next clue is to find the castle that inspired Sleeping Beauty, and Courfeyrac is honestly shocked when Combeferre doesn’t know which castle it is.

“Sorry for not knowing _everything_ , I took one fairy tales and folk legends class _freshman year,_ and we didn’t even go into modern media, all I know is that the castle was based off a German one-“

“Oh, wow, that’s so helpful.” Courfeyrac deadpans, from the backseat. “Really narrows it down, ‘ferre.”

Combeferre lets out a frustrated noise as they re-enter the populated area. “I’m pulling over. Hopefully you’re better at asking for directions this time.”

Barely refraining from looking to Marius and begging him to help, Courfeyrac climbs out of the car. In some amazing stroke of good luck, the woman he talks to speaks English, and directs them to Hohenschwangau castle.

Which, as it just so happens, is the wrong one.

They don’t realize at first, of course. No, they go through half the castle tour, keeping an eye out for the clue that supposedly rests in the room of Ludwig II. When they ask the tour guide about the room, he happily informs him of their mistake, and directs them to Neuschwanstein Castle instead.

Courfeyrac is going to go back to the forest, dig himself a nice hole, curl up in the dirt and hope for the best.

 ---

Combeferre breaks about seven speed limits as they drive to the Pit Stop- or, at least, Courfeyrac thinks he does; he has no idea what the speed limits of Bavaria are like. They’re given a map that goes all the way to the Pit Stop, which seems to be a dairy farm. Courfeyrac doesn’t know what place they’re in, race-wise; he hasn’t seen another team since they and the newlyweds went their separate ways after the gingerbread challenge. He’s not optimistic about their chances, though. 

It all feels blurry; the drive, the Pit Stop, everything. One moment he’s trying not to fidget in the backseat of their borrowed car, the next he’s in front of Combeferre, running so fast his lungs burn, and then he’s in front of Phil, and all of the other teams. He locks eyes with Cosette, who smiles kindly, and doesn’t look away as they’re told what they already know: they’re in last place.

 ---

They’re not eliminated.

They’ll face a Speed Bump at the next leg, Russia, Courfeyrac thinks idly, but they’re not eliminated.

It’s all he can think of, waiting in the airport for the second flight out of Germany, sitting against the wall by himself. Combeferre is god knows where, probably reading or discussing literature with passerby or whatever the hell he does when he’s angry, and Marius and Eponine are giving him space, only needing to film a brief segment in which he low key ranted about Combeferre before they left him to sulk in peace.

Sitting with his backpack at his side, listening to people pass by, chattering away in the language he’s grown to loathe, Courfeyrac tries to understand what the hell Combeferre’s problem is with him, because, aside from some navigational errors, he’s done _nothing_ to piss him off so royally.

He hears footsteps coming closer and prays that whoever it is will just keep walking, and is immediately disappointed when they stop directly in front of him. With a sigh, he rolls his head up to see Chase, in all of his American-flag-bro-tank-and-pastel-cargo-pants wearing glory, smiling at Courfeyrac lazily. Internally, Courfeyrac tries to prepare himself for the worst, for everything any frat boy has ever said about his name, accent, skin color, sexuality, height, wardrobe, or just his face in general. Also, he’s painfully aware that Chase and Chantz arrived second-to-last at the Pit Stop, so he prepares to be mocked about that as well. What he’s not expecting, however, is for Chase to shake his head, slide down the wall to sit beside Courfeyrac, and mutter, “Man, _fuck_ Germany.”

Which, um. “Okay?”

Chase looks at him for a few seconds, before shrugging, “You looked like you could use some company.”

“Okay,” Courfeyrac repeats, enunciating the word slowly. “I’m not overly familiar with fraternities, is ‘fuck Germany’ a standard greeting?”

Snorting back a laugh, Chase grins at him. “Nah, just, like, fuck Germany.” He pauses. “Which Detour did you do?”

Courfeyrac blinks at him, not really understanding where this is going. “Fairy tale?”

“How was it?”

“There was a witch and a cauldron and I never wanna see gingerbread again for the rest of my life.” He says simply, then considers. “I’m guessing you did Champion Male?”

Chase nods, grin widening. “We groomed some old dude’s beard into a fancy style. Chantz was weirded by touching another guy’s beard, but I thought it was sick. I’m like, really good with a comb and hairspray. Who knew, right?”

“Right.” Courfeyrac says slowly, no more sure what’s going on than he had been before.

“Right.” Chase agrees, clearing his throat. “Look, I don’t have, like, a fancy speech or anything, but you should talk to your friend. Make things right.”

Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow, amused. He’s never been on the receiving end of meddling before. Also, Chase is lucky he didn’t go to Combeferre to try to intervene; his best friend doesn’t exactly appreciate anyone other than Enjolras and Courfeyrac assuming to know what’s best for him. “Excuse me?”

“Can’t race together if you’re not speaking to each other, can you?” Chase says simply, and Courfeyrac knows he’s exhausted, because in that moment, he doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything so deep.

Blinking, he frowns at Chase in confusion. “So isn’t it better for you if I don’t talk to him?”

“Not really.” He sighs serenely, sinking back against the wall, and Courfeyrac has the distinct feeling that he’s about to be told all the secrets of the universe as Chase looks out into the airport lobby. “You guys are a challenge, sure, you’re smart and fast and I’m willing to bet Spanish and French aren’t the only languages you know. But you know who else is a challenge?” Courfeyrac shakes his head slowly. “Fuckin’ Clay and Meagen. And, if I have to, I’d much rather lose to you guys.”

Courfeyrac laughs; he’s not sure how, but he understands that statement perfectly. “Any particular reason why?”

Chase shakes his head, and for a second Courfeyrac thinks he wont answer, before he says, “On the first flight out, you know why they sat next to me and Chantz? Because they said we looked like _‘real americans’,_ I shit you not. We realized pretty quick that by ‘real americans’ they meant white, straight, republican, whatever. That’s not what the fuck America’s about, man. People like that don’t deserve a million dollars.”

Courfeyrac makes a valiant attempt not to gape back at him, and is marginally successful. “Sorry.” He says, when he’s finished processing everything he’s just been told, then when Chase gives him a curious look he elaborates, “I had this… image, or expectation, in my head, of what you were gonna be like. The kind of person you were, and- it was really wrong and kinda harsh.”

Chase stares at him for a second, before barking out a laugh. “See?” He shoves gently at Courfeyrac’s shoulder, and staggers to his feet. “That’s the kind of thinking that deserves a million dollars.”

 --- 

He finds Combeferre sitting on a bench, bent over the flimsy collection of logic puzzles he’d thrown into their stuff when he found out they were allowed to bring a _few_ personal items (that’d be inspected beforehand, obviously), because Combeferre is the kind of person who does logic puzzles for fun, and is also the kind of sensible human being that knows lugging a real book around the world is kind of impractical.

Courfeyrac sits down next to him cautiously, and Combeferre doesn’t acknowledge his presence or move his backpack from between then, and Courfeyrac is struck by how _wrong_ it all feels. That, more than anything, has him saying, “I was told to apologize.”

Combeferre is silent for a moment, pencil scratching against the thin paper. “I can’t imagine by _who_.” He says first, then sighs. “And prefacing an apology with how it wasn’t your idea kind of throws its sincerity into question.”

“Oh, I’m not going to apologize.” Courfeyrac says, and _that_ gets Combeferre to look at him, even if it is only an indignant and challenging glare. Courfeyrac just shrugs back at him, fighting the urge to smile, because he always wants to smile at Combeferre, even when he’s being grumpy. “You already know I’m sorry. I’m always sorry, and I hate fighting with my friends. We’re lucky I didn’t cry on camera, honestly.” He did, after the cameras went away, and it probably shows, but that’s not really the point. 

Combeferre doesn’t argue what he’s said, but he does raise an eyebrow at him. “So what _are_ you here to tell me?”

“You're not allowed to be mad at me.” Courfeyrac responds simply. “You're not, not right now, not when we’re getting on a flight to Moscow in the morning and I need you now more than ever to recognize what’s important here.” Looking directly into Combeferre’s eyes, he says. “You know there’s no one else in this whole shitty, wonderful world I’d rather run this race with, even if you didn’t speak to me the entire rest of the time. But it’d be great if we could go back to kicking ass and enjoying ourselves.”

Combeferre pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, and Courfeyrac knows he’s trying not to smile. “You realize you just told me I wasn't allowed to be mad then said I was allowed to be mad but you wouldn’t like it.”

“I’m a fickle creature.”

Combeferre lets himself smile at that, before sighing slowly. “Courf-“

“And we don’t have to talk about it.” Courfeyrac interrupts. “I mean, I know you don’t like to, and it’s not like we were fighting over anything significant. We were just irritated and having a rough time and we let it get between us, and I’d honestly prefer we just went back to being besties.”

Combeferre nods, sits back so he’s leaned against the wall behind them, and doesn’t say anything for a second. “You know I won’t mind, if-” He pauses. “Not that we’d have an overabundance of free time in which to do so, but if you wanted to have some alone time with anyone, I… it’d be fine with me.”

It’s admittedly the absolute last response Courfeyrac was expecting, and he has to take a moment to process it, because where the hell did _that_ come from? “Um,” He laughs. “Wasn’t _really_ planning on luring locals back to fool around in airport chairs, but that’s good to know? I guess?”

Combeferre makes a tiny scoffing noise that’s almost inaudible. “I was thinking of other racers, actually.” 

And, um. What? Just- _what_? Courfeyrac’s mind flounders, trying to think of a contestant he’s shown even the slightest bit of interest in, or interacted with in a way that would lead Combeferre to believe he wanted his best friend to make himself scarce so they could hook up in an airport lobby. His mind goes to Chase at first, thinking Combeferre misinterpreted their conversation, but there’s no way he could have seen it. Maybe-

Combeferre knows what he’s thinking, obviously, because he explains, “Cosette. For example.”

Courfeyrac laughs, rolling his eyes slightly, and Combeferre stares at him in confusion. “Oh-“ Courfeyrac pauses. “Wait, was that not a joke?” Combeferre gives him a significant look, and Courfeyrac fights the urge to start laughing again. Shaking his head incredulously, he explains, “Cosette’s, like- I’ve never had more platonic feelings for anyone in my life. She’s great, honestly, A+ human being, but nah. And even if I _did_ like her like that, Marius fell in love with her pretty much the moment he saw her. I couldn’t do that to him.”

“Oh.” Combeferre says, a faint smile pulling at the edges of his mouth. “Well, the offer stands.”

Courfeyrac grins at that. Typical Combeferre. “I don’t think I’ll be needing it, but thanks.” Looking around the emptying airport, he leans in to Combeferre and whispers, “Now where the fuck are we going to sleep tonight?”


	7. Leg 5: Germany to Russia

The Speed Bump is a terror to behold.

They’re given four keys at the start of the race, and instructed to go to the Luzhkov Bridge, which means nothing to either of them until they’re approaching the bridge and Combeferre mutters “ _Trees of Love”_ like a Hogwarts student talking about Dolores Umbridge. He doesn't elaborate, though, so Courfeyrac figures it’s just another moment like that time he figured out the answer to the riddle that’d been bothering him since eight grade (the answer to which he refused to Google) in the middle of dinner.

As it turns out, however, the Trees of Love are iron trees covered in padlocks. The four keys match four of the locks on the tree marked with an Amazing Race flag, which has like, a thousand goddamn locks on it. 

While Courfeyrac stares at the tree in a mind-numbing panic and tries to come to terms with this horrible sadistic challenge and the fact that, yeah. This is their last leg, and they’re gonna be eliminated. It’s over. Combeferre is walking around the tree, humming lowly in thought and occasionally saying little things that aren’t really directed at Courfeyrac.

“They won’t have uniform rusting patterns, if they’re rusted at all, because they’d be recently put on the tree.” He says, reaching up to touch a gold lock.

“They’ll have to match the keys, obviously. Brand name, metal, size. One gold, one bronze, two silver.” He tosses the keys from hand to hand.

“In an ideal world, they’d say something about the Race in Russian, because everyone likes to show how clever they are, even race organizers, and they’d assume most people wouldn’t know Russian.”

While Courfeyrac is trying to act helpful, listening to Combeferre’s little comments and searching for locks that match the description, Combeferre finds all four locks in less than fifteen minutes.

Courfeyrac wants to throw him a parade.

 ---

“ _Who’s Good At Solving Mysteries, Literally?_ ” Courfeyrac reads when they reach Fallen Monument Park, breathing a little easier because there were two Roadblocks in the clue box, which means somehow there’s a team behind them. He turns to Combeferre. “Wanna put those logic puzzles to good use?”

Combeferre has to find and add up the amount of statues of Lenin and Stalin in the park, then combine the numbers and take the two-digit number to a bookstore, Bukinist (and Combeferre laughs at the simplicity of the name) on Arbat Street. If he gave the right number he’d be given a book in which the next clue was hidden.

Courfeyrac isn’t allowed to help, so he sits on a bench with Marius and waits. Since he’s doing literally nothing, Marius doesn’t have to film him, and they just sit and talk. About their childhoods, and the languages they speak (Marius knows eleven, not counting English, and Courfeyrac has never been more impressed), and whether or not Cosette was smiling at Marius when they got off the plane.

Later, Combeferre will tell him that he counted six statues of Lenin and two of Stalin, making the combined number sixty-two, which he gave to the bookstore owner and in return, she handed him The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov. On page sixty-two he found the words ‘Sadovaya Street’, where he found Bulgakov’s old flat and their next clue. He tells the story with a particularly smug expression on his face, because there were two people, Bahorel’s partner, Milo, and half of the classical musicians team (though Combeferre’s not sure which one), waiting outside when he went in to the bookshop, as the penalty for guessing the combined number incorrectly was a ten minute wait before they could guess again.

The Detour is a choice between Movers and Shakers, and they, on a whim, choose Shakers. It involves a costume party, which, in Courfeyrac’s opinion, is probably the best thing that’s ever happened. Combeferre, history buff that he is, has no trouble identifying Catherine the Great, Joseph Stalin, Leon Trotsky, Leonid Brezhnev, Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov, Peter the Great, Sergei Rachmaninoff, Nicholas II of Russia, and Vladimir Lenin, and Courfeyrac counts the number of impersonators as they go. They take the tally to Alexander Pushkin, who gives them the directions to their Pit Stop in Sokolniki Park.

They come in 5th, and after starting in last place _and_ having to deal with the Speed Bump, it feels a hell of a lot like first. 

 ---

Bahorel and Milo are eliminated, and Courfeyrac tries to tell himself that if they want to win, they’ll have to see everyone they like get taken out of the running at some point or another. It doesn’t really help, but Bahorel smiles widely as they exchange contact info and hug goodbye, so he has a feeling he’ll be seeing him again, at least.

They get to stay in a hotel for this leg, and Cosette has the idea to go swimming, since they get to the hotel at three in the afternoon and have some time to kill (“Wait, you brought a swimsuit on the Race with you?” Courfeyrac asks, incredulously. Cosette shrugs. “Nancy Drew was prepared for any eventuality. And you obviously have no idea how little space a bikini takes up”). They invite Eponine, who spends most of the time chilling in the hot tub, and Marius, who turns a very interesting shade of red when he realizes Cosette is speaking to him and an even darker one when she mentions swimming, and Courfeyrac has to translate his forty-word answer from Mandarin to an English ‘he’d love to’. They don’t bother inviting the Shitty Siblings, as most of the teams have begun to call them, but Chase and Chantz jump at the chance and Natalia and Grace do as well, as their respective partners sit and watch from the sidelines. 

Combeferre takes some convincing.

He’s not overly fond of being surrounded by and forced to socialize with people he doesn’t know well, and he’s still got logic puzzles to be finished (his preferred method of relaxation). They compromise; Combeferre spends half an hour in the pool, trying his best to enjoy himself, and then he does his logic puzzles _by_ the pool, so it still technically qualifies as the two of them hanging out together.

Courfeyrac is playing Marco Polo with Marius and Cosette, and trying to find a way of cornering the two of them together or in general some course of action that ends with mouths touching other than Marius being pushed into the deep end and Cosette having to resuscitate him (which she can do, thanks to her Nancy Drew preparedness model for life). “Marco!” He calls, splashing his arms uselessly.

“Po-“ Cosette starts to call back, before trailing off. “Holy shit.”

“Whoa there,” Courfeyrac starts, grinning. “This is a _family establishment_ , mind your fucking la-“

“Hey, Courf.”

Courfeyrac opens his eyes and spins in the water, recognizing Combeferre’s voice from behind him. “I almost thought you weren’t coming, slowpoke.”

Combeferre shrugs, “I said I would, didn’t I?” He nods towards the chairs and tables. “Where should I put my stuff?”

Courfeyrac gestures to where they’ve all haphazardly piled their belongings a safe distance from the water, and Combeferre walks off.

“Okay.” Cosette says softly, an airiness to her voice. “The tattoos are a surprise.”

Courfeyrac glances back to Cosette, who’s half-gaping at Combeferre, and he understands the reaction, he really does. It’s the first time she’s seen him shirtless, or even seen his arms exposed past his wrists, and processing the image of responsible, controlled Combeferre with his arms and bits of his chest covered in scrawling lines of ink can be shocking for some people. Courfeyrac, for his part, had to stay at Joly and Bossuet’s until he re-understood the difference between finding someone attractive and being attracted _to_ someone and could look at Combeferre without hyperventilating.

“Are you a fan of tattoos on guys?” Courfeyrac asks, more for Marius’ benefit than out of genuine curiosity. Thinking about it, though, he has no idea if Cosette is even into guys. “Or anyone. What’s your type, ‘sette?”

“Hm. That’s a tough one.” Cosette says, tapping her chin. She swirls in the water, turning to look at Marius. “If you had to describe yourself in a few words, Marius, which would you use?”

Courfeyrac tries to contain his excitement as Marius flounders, obviously not understanding what Cosette is trying to say. “Um.” He says, looking to Courfeyrac with a panicked expression before flicking his eyes back to Cosette. “Tall, linguist… um… cabbage.” He finishes lamely. Courfeyrac may or may not have referred to Marius as a cabbage when they were chatting earlier.

Cosette turns back to Courfeyrac. “I’d have to say my type is tall linguist cabbages, to be honest.”

Marius makes a flustered noise, and Courfeyrac grins proudly at Cosette for being one smooth cucumber. 

 --- 

They end up playing a ruleless, chaotic version of volleyball, and Combeferre’s height proves invaluable, even if without his glasses he gets confused where the ball actually is from time to time. After a round of Combeferre squinting determinedly at the other side of the pool, Courfeyrac moves to stand next to him so he can tell him everything that’s happening, as well as where the ball is. Combeferre plays a couple of games before taking his leave, thought true to his word he sits poolside with his pen,logic puzzle and glasses that fog up intermittently, and obliges Courfeyrac every time he wants to show Combeferre some cool trick he can do. He and Gabrielle compare tattoos for a while, until Gabrielle gives into her wife’s pleading and joins them in the pool. Cosette and Marius exchange playful glances the entire time, which Courfeyrac calls a win, except he also suspects they’re the reason Eponine goes to bed early, and he resolves to try to talk to her about that, if he can.

Overall, he counts it a success.

...except for one _tiny_ thing.

When he gets out of the pool, feeling the exhaustion creeping into his veins as he pulls the towel over his shoulders and turns to ask Combeferre if he wants to go back to the room, Combeferre is talking to one of the beekeepers. Ben, the one with the bright blue eyes and, low, rich voice, is sitting across the table from Combeferre and leaning as close to him as he can manage as they talk animatedly. Combeferre’s grinning back at him, an appreciative, intensely focused look in his eyes that Courfeyrac hasn’t seen since he bought him that book on conspiracy theories for his birthday. Courfeyrac feels something rise in the pit of the stomach, something venomous and uncomfortable and he can’t pretend to understand what it is, so he ignores it and walks determinedly to their table.

“Hey, Courf,” Combeferre says when he walks up. “Did you know Ben’s studying to become a lepidopterist?” Oh god, another moth enthusiast. The thing in his stomach lurches uncomfortably. “I was just telling him about that summer I spent working for the butterfly pavilion- which was probably incredibly boring to hear about, now that I think about it.” He says, with an apologetic glance to Ben, who shakes his head immediately.

“No, not at all.” Ben says, waving Combeferre’s apologetic look away. “It was… captivating.”

Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow. _Captivating_? Combeferre spent the summer classifying butterfly wings and telling little kids not to touch anything. Far from _captivating_.

Combeferre declines his invitation back to the room, saying he’ll stay there and talk to Ben for a while longer, but that he’ll be up in a bit. 

Courfeyrac feels like he’s going to throw up. Maybe it’s the chlorine. 

 ---

When Courfeyrac got out of the pool, everyone minus the frat boys and the musicians had gone up to their rooms, so he’s surprised when he runs into Cosette in the lobby.

“Oh hey, do you know how to ask for more pillows in Russian, I was going to-“ She breaks off, taking a long, appraising look at him. “What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

Cosette takes a step closer to him, eyes narrowed. “You’re not smiling. You kind of look like you want to cry.”

He laughs, but it sounds forced, even to his ears. What is _happening_ to him? “I’m fine.”

Cosette just looks at him. He wasn’t aware one look could make him quite so guilty, like he’s disappointed everyone he’s ever loved. He feels like he'd confess everything bad he's ever done if it'd just get that look out of her eyes. She should work for the FBI. “I just- Combeferre was getting all bondy with Ben over moths and shit, and I’m all- friend possessive, I guess.” He shrugs. “Happens to the best of us. Also I might be allergic to chlorine. Tests should be done.”

Nodding slowly, Cosette gestures to one of the armchairs lining the lobby, and Courfeyrac sits automatically. Cosette might have mind control powers. “So, Combeferre’s making new friends.”

“Yeah, and it’s gross.” Cosette gives him that disappointed look again, and he withers. “I mean, no, it’s just,” Courfeyrac huffs, trying to form what he’s feeling into words, to accurately explain why he feels like he’s trying to swallow his own spleen. “We should be focusing on the race. Sure, making friends is great, but we can’t afford the risk of Combeferre getting distracted by Ben the Beekeep when we’re climbing waterfalls or god knows what.”

Cosette hums, fingers tapping a gentle, thoughtful rhythm on the arm of her chair. “Are you sure that’s why you’re upset?”

“Sure.” Courfeyrac’s voice sounds defensive. There’s no reason for him to sound defensive. There's no reason for Cosette to doubt him, either, because it’s the _truth._ “Why?”

“Well,” She says softly. “You’re allowing yourself to make friends, but not him. Any idea why?”

Courfeyrac scoffs. “What friends have I made?” Cosette blinks at him, before gesturing slowly to herself. “No, I mean- that’s different.”

“Is it?”

“Of course it is!” He says, hands gesturing wildly, the way they tend to when he gets upset. “You’re not running around with a brain full of bee facts and sky blue eyes and calling me ‘ _captivating_ ’.” Somewhere, deep in the dark, unexplored part of his brain, a puzzle piece slides into place. He sees the way Ben had been eyeing Combeferre’s tattoos, and the prickling of hair lining his jaw. He’s seen that look before, and, “We’re not flirting. They’re… they’re _flirting_ , and it makes me want to _break things_.” Another piece, and Courfeyrac thinks his heart actually stops beating. “Holy shit, I’m jealous.”

Cosette nods slowly, reaching out to cover Courfeyrac’s hand with her own. “Because…?”

“Because _I_ like Ben the Beekeep?” Courfeyrac frowns; the words taste unpleasant on his tongue. “No, ew, I- oh _madre de díos_.”

Cosette nods sympathetically, her bright eyes wide and understanding as the final piece slots into place.

“Because I like Combeferre.” He whispers, and there it is, the unspoken truth that had been hiding in the back of his mind for who knows how long, biding its time, getting nice and comfortable and waiting to sneak up on him in the middle of goddamn _Russia_. “I like Combeferre, and he likes Ben, and they’re going to have irresponsible sex in butterfly pavilions and adopt a horde of bee-loving children.” Courfeyrac blinks, feeling dizzy and nauseated and completely overwhelmed by the information his traitor of a brain is feeding him. “I need to sit down.”

“You are sitting down.” 

“Oh.” Courfeyrac hums distractedly. “Then be a dear and get me something to light on fire, will you?” Fire will help. Fire always helps. Fire will not leave him for a hot beekeeper.

Shaking her head, Cosette says kindly. “Not everything can be solved with fire, Courf.”

“And what can’t can be solved with vodka. And how convenient! We happen to be in the vodka capital of the world.”

Cosette’s eyes narrow, not quite dangerously, but faintly threatening. “If you think I’m going to letyou run the next leg hung-over, you are sadly mistaken.” She sits straighter, then extends her arms determinedly. “I _will_ give you a hug, if you want one.”

“Cosette. I am seriously considering abandoning the race and human society altogether and living in the Russian tundra for the rest of my life.” He says, dragging a hand through his hair. “One hug? Really not gonna cut it.” But he hugs her anyway, and tries to steady his breathing. He didn’t know. He genuinely _didn’t know,_ and now the weight of it feels like it's crushing him. Because it’s- it’s _Combeferre_ , and he might genuinely be in love with him, and that’s the kind of feeling that ruins friendships. He can’t breathe.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Cosette says, petting his hair, and his breaths steady somewhat. “Papa’s trying to get some sleep in our room, but we can go cuddle and try to understand Russian television in yours, if you want.”

If Courfeyrac wins the two million dollars, he’s going to buy Cosette a pony.


	8. Leg 6: Russia to China

It’s fine.

Everything’s fine. 

He sleeps in a separate bed from Combeferre, which is fine. He can’t really bring himself to look at Combeferre, except when he catches himself staring at Combeferre as he sleeps across from him, but it’s fine. Over breakfast, Combeferre’s hand brushes his as he reaches for their passports, and Courfeyrac jumps and spills his orange juice over his blini. Combeferre shares the rest of his own blini with him, and it helps nothing, but it’s fine. When they get on their flight out of Moscow, Combeferre’s shirt lifts up when he puts their backpacks in the overhead storage, showing a brief glimpse of his adonis belt, and Courfeyrac has three consecutive heart attacks, but it’s _fine_.

They make three layovers and get on a connecting flight, and it’s long, and awful, but he almost doesn’t even notice, he’s too busy freaking out. It's like before, it had just been him and Combeferre, any anything they did together was something best friends did, because they were best friends and they were doing it. But Courfeyrac finds himself overanalyzing everything he does; whether humming happily while Combeferre idly trails his fingers through his hair crosses some kind of line, whether complimenting Combeferre on his shirt and telling him that green is definitely his color would come off as creepy. He finds himself wondering, as Combeferre laces their fingers together so they don't lose track of each other in the airport, if Combeferre'd be holding his hand if he knew how Courfeyrac felt. It's exhausting, constantly thinking this much. He doesn't know how Combeferre does it.

When they fly into the airport at Guangzhou, Courfeyrac’s muscles don’t feel right, and he’s tired after a night of trying to get comfortable curled up against Combeferre while suddenly hyperaware of and unable to stop staring at his collarbones, the way his eyelashes fluttered against his cheek, the line of his newly shaved jaw. It was too much.

He’s grateful for the distraction the race provides, because it’s easier to ignore how attracted you are to your best friend when you’re in Eday Town, a play town occupied by hundreds of screaming children, and assembling a working miniature car out of a box of tiny parts. It gives Courfeyrac a chance to refine his Mandarin, and even if it’s perhaps a bit of an unfair advantage that all the instructions are printed in a language no one on the Race but he and Marius speak, he’s not exactly complaining. Especially because he’s _terrible_ at following instructions.

As he works, a couple of little kids scamper over, curious as to what he’s doing, and he waves them off with terse explanations, smiling at the shocked looks on their faces when he replies to their questions in Mandarin. The one who doesn’t lose interest, a little boy who doesn’t tell Courfeyrac his name (smart kid), sits down next to Combeferre. They play with toy cars, sound effects and all, while Courfeyrac works, and though they don’t even vaguely speak the same language, Combeferre has the kid smiling so widely it looks almost painful. His sound effects _are_ pretty impressive, Courfeyrac admits, and tries to quiet the funny wiggling in his heart.

Though Courfeyrac struggles with where to put what, even as it’s literally spelled out for him, they finish before any other team, and Courfeyrac hands the car over to be inspected.

“How the _hell_ are you done already?” Meagen’s voice says, from behind him, and Courfeyrac turns to see her talking to Combeferre, who’s collecting their backpacks. 

“Oh, did we not mention I speak six languages and Courf speaks three?” Combeferre slings his bag over his shoulder. “Whoops.”

“You speak _six languages?”_ She stares at him.

Combeferre shrugs. “One of the advantages of coming from diverse backgrounds, I suppose.” 

Courfeyrac grins; he never got around to telling Combeferre about the ‘real americans’ comment, but he somehow has the feeling Combeferre knows about it anyway. Combeferre turns away from Meagen and catches Courfeyrac’s gaze. His expression is carefully blank, the picture of innocence, but his eyebrows quirk up mischievously, and Courfeyrac can’t help but smile.

If nothing else, he commends himself on his taste in men.

\---

Courfeyrac has hated a lot of things for a lot of reasons, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever hate anything more than the Detour they’re given in Guangzhou.

It seems harmless enough, a choice between Earth and Fire, and Combeferre knows him so well that he doesn’t even have to ask what he’d rather do. Fire it is.

Fire, it turns out, is a Chinese ritual where they write messages of good or bad luck into paper sky lanterns, burn spirit money under them, and release the floating lanterns into the sky.

So basically the scene from Tangled. With Combeferre.

To clarify: the scene that Courfeyrac has watched at least three hundred times, squealing at the cuteness every time, minus the boat ride, with Combeferre. Combeferre, whose jaw clenches in concentration as he lights the correct amount of spirit money to ensure the lanterns will have enough hot air to fly. Combeferre, whose skin glows in the firelight. Combeferre, who watches Courfeyrac excitedly release his first lantern, his eyes sparkling with with something he so desperately wants to call love, but more than likely is just relief after Courfeyrac’s four failed attempts.

Courfeyrac has developed an incredible amount of self control, but not enough to stop him from singing ‘I See The Light’ as the lanterns float up above them. He’s only human, okay?

Combeferre pauses after a few moments, having just pushed their twelfth lantern into the sky, to raise an eyebrow at Courfeyrac. “Are you… singing?”

Courfeyrac considers denying it, before sighing. “Let me have my Disney moment, please.”

“Disney…”

“The lantern scene in Tangled.” Courfeyrac says simply, but Combeferre still looks lost. “‘ferre, do you _ever_ pay attention when Enjolras and I make you watch Disney movies?” Combeferre’s face answers the question for him, and he gives a long, drawn out sigh. “Just trust me, it’s very fitting.”

_In more ways than one_ , he thinks, lighting another stack of papers.

 ---

The thing is, once he gets over the initial shock and disbelief, it's not really even surprising. Combeferre is just so- he's smart, and complex, and interesting, and amazing, and he's been the calming center of Courfeyrac's hectic life since grade school. He's Courfeyrac's constant, he's always there, always patient, always understanding, always just- Combeferre. He realizes that he's been mentally comparing his past romantic partners to Combeferre for  _years_ , because Lilah had Combeferre's eyes but they lacked that flicker of mischief, and Caleb had his intelligence but not his reason, and none of them have ever measured up to the Combeferre. Combeferre is the one he wants to fall asleep with, and watch animal documentaries, the one he wants fanning smoke away from the detector when Courfeyrac decimates their breakfast, the one he wants next to him at protests and on his couch after a long day. 

And he has that, which should. Be enough.

He hates that it feels like it isn't.

 


	9. Leg 7: China to Malaysia

Malaysia is the worst leg of the entire race.

Kuala Lumpur is utterly gorgeous, but the fun ends pretty much as soon as Courfeyrac stops gazing adoringly at the scenery.

First, the Detour, which is a choice between Artistic Expression or Cookie Confection, and, since neither of them are particularly artistically inclined, they go with the cookie option. The cookie option is going through six hundred boxes of traditional Malaysian festive cookies and trying to find the cookie with the licorice center. By biting into every one.

By the time Combeferre bites into the licorice one and they run to get their next clue, Courfeyrac is completely over cookies. Overrated little sugary balls of awfulness.

Then, the roadblock, wherein Courfeyrac rides around Taman Sri Hartamas, a Malaysia neighborhood, and stammers at them in broken Malay, asking for their newspapers to be recycled until the pile on the bicycle reaches six feet high.

Admittedly, Malaysia isn’t bad. The cookies are delicious, (for a while), the transportation is comfortable, and people are so into recycling in the city that they’re practically lining up to give Courfeyrac their newspapers. Hell, they even get to the Pit Stop in fourth place which, considering they got on the wrong bus to Gombak, is pretty impressive.

But after twenty minutes of waiting with the other teams at the Pit Stop, he has to see the look in Cosette’s eyes as she and Valjean are eliminated from the race, and it breaks his heart.

\---

“ _No_ , stop it, if you cry then I’m going to cry and everything will be awful.” Cosette says, lifting her backpack over her shoulders. They’re standing in the airport lobby, and her flight back to America leaves in half an hour. Courfeyrac knew, on some basic level, that if he wanted to win (and he _very much_ wanted to win), it would mean beating Cosette. But- at this point he feels like Cosette is another one of his sisters, and he gets really protective when he thinks about her, and it just- is _terrible_.

Valjean and Combeferre are chatting animatedly again, next to the security line, and Courfeyrac suspects it’s more to let him and Cosette talk than the need to actually discuss anything. “I’m gonna miss you, you know. A frankly ridiculous amount.” He says, with a weak smile.

“Understandable, I’m pretty awesome.” Courfeyrac laughs, and she wipes at her eyes. “Maybe once the race is over I’ll visit you and Combeferre in Boston, meet the infamous Enjolras I’ve heard so much about.”

“I’m holding you to that.” Courfeyrac says, then pauses. “In fact, we should probably make an unbreakable vow that you’ll come stay with us, for at least two weeks. Or you could just come live with us, actually. It’d be great; you’d love Joly, and Bossuet, oh and you’d absolutely _adore_ Grantaire.”

Laughing, she nods her agreement. “I might just do that.” She holds up her arms and Courfeyrac hugs her tightly, lifting her off her feet and swinging her in the air as she laughs. As he puts her back on the ground, instead of letting go she pulls away slightly, and fixes him with A Look. “You’ve gotta win, okay? I know you and ‘ferre can do some really amazing things with two million dollars, so you have to promise me you’ll win this goddamn race.”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “Try my best.”

Rolling her eyes, Cosette shoves at him, before looking back to Combeferre and Valjean. “And you should tell him.” She says, with a kind smile, “But only when you’re ready.” She leans up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to a cheek with a smile, before walking away to say goodbye to Marius.

\---

Courfeyrac doesn’t cry. He’s too tired to cry. He’s been sleeping on trains and in lobbies, he runs at least a mile a day through foreign streets, and he’s. He’s just so tired. He’s not sure why he’s even running the race anymore, when Cosette is gone and the feelings he has for Combeferre make him feel like he’s always either choking or drowning, and all he wants is to go _home_.

“You know, this seems like it should be easier. More fun.” He mutters weakly to Combeferre, as they sit, watching planes light up the night sky as they take off and land in slow succession. Their plane leaves at three in the morning, and they should really take advantage of any time to rest they get, but neither of them feel like sleeping. “Instead it’s been exhausting and grueling and eventually everyone I like will either leave me or beat me.”

Combeferre is silent next to him, and Courfeyrac wonders for a second if he’s fallen asleep, before he says, “Hasn’t it been fun?”

Courfeyrac snorts, looking at Combeferre through lidded eyes. “Did we go through the same Germany, or?”

“Okay, that was pretty awful, I’ll give you that.” Combeferre says, turning away and exhaling slowly. “But, I mean. We’re in Malaysia. We were just in China. We’ve been to so many places that I never thought I’d see, because I never had the money for it. And yeah, it’s exhausting, but we’ve seen so many beautiful things and met so many amazing people, and we get to do it together.” He shrugs, looking back to Courfeyrac. “That qualifies as fun in my book.”

Courfeyrac stares at him, wondering how the hell he found someone like Combeferre. Someone who just instinctively knows what Courfeyrac needs to feel, or hear, who always manages to calm him, or help him focus, or remind him of everything he loves about the world when he most needs reminding. Someone who brings out the absolute best in Courfeyrac without even _trying_. 

“What?” Combeferre says, after who knows how long of Courfeyrac gaping at him, “Am I-?”

Courfeyrac kisses him.

It’s not forceful, or sudden; he just leans forward and closes the distance between them, easy as breathing. Combeferre’s lips are soft, softer than he imagined, but then again, the kiss is nothing like he imagined. Combeferre doesn’t freeze up, or pull away, he just kisses him back slowly, deliberately, and it- it makes Courfeyrac’s heart pound in his chest and his brain cloud over and it feels like something monumental finally falling into place but it also. It feels like they’re not kissing each other for the same reasons. Or in the same ways. And just as Courfeyrac darts his tongue out gently, presses a careful hand to Combeferre’s jaw, trying to deepen the kiss, Combeferre pulls away.

Courfeyrac’s eyes flicker open and Combeferre looks back at him, eyes carefully blank as he leans in, slowly, and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Goodnight, Courfeyrac.” He murmurs, before standing and walking off, leaving Courfeyrac alone.


	10. Leg 8: Malaysia to New Zealand

When Combeferre wakes him up hours later, he doesn’t mention the kiss. In fact, Courfeyrac is half convinced he dreamed it, because Combeferre doesn’t act any differently. He teases Courfeyrac about his less-than-pleasant demeanor, and wonders aloud what challenges New Zealand might present, and does his logic puzzles with a peaceful smile.

Courfeyrac can’t decide if he wants to hit him or kiss him again.

He lets Combeferre ignore it on the flight, doesn’t bring it up when their knees brush together, or when Combeferre pokes him in the side to get his attention, or when he falls asleep on Combeferre’s shoulder and wakes up with fingers tangled in his hair. He’s silent the entire taxi ride from Auckland Airport to their hotel, watching the scenery fly past instead as he leans against Marius in exhaustion.

They stagger up to their room at just past nine in the evening, after Marius and Eponine have abandoned them for their own room down the hall, and Courfeyrac is just tired and exasperated enough to decide it’s damn time they stopped ignoring it. As Combeferre flops down on the bed, arm thrown over his face, Courfeyrac stands at the foot of his bed and says, “When are we gonna talk about what happened last night, ‘ferre?”

Combeferre doesn’t respond for a minute, laying, unmoving, across the blankets. “…never?” He groans finally, and Courfeyrac is trying to think of something indignant enough to say in response before Combeferre continues, “Just- like all the other times, let’s just.. forget about it.”

That. Was really not what Courfeyrac was expecting him to say. “W- what other times?”

“Exactly.”

“No, ‘ferre-“ His heart is doing that thing where it’s not beating again. “ _What other times_?”

Combeferre lifts his head up from the bed, staring at him with incredulous, searching eyes. “You honestly don’t remember.” It’s not a question. He sits up, jaw clenched, and holds up a hand, counting on his fingers, “The Alpha Chai New Year’s Eve party. The Christmas party the year Marianna was in the hospital. The night after that marriage equality rally. Your twenty-first birthday.” He laughs to himself then, shaking his head slightly. “Not that you were sober for any of those, now that I think about it.”

Courfeyrac feels like he’s going to cry. Or throw up. “But I- I kissed you?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And I never said anything after- oh _god_.”

Combeferre shrugs. “You get used to it, after a while.” He turns away from Courfeyrac, pulling the covers off his bed. “It’s fine, Courf, don’t worry about it. But I really do need to get some sleep.”

Courfeyrac nods, and doesn’t say another word, just turns off the lights and thinks. His mind tries to process what Combeferre told him, and his knees go weak at the thought, so he sits down on his own bed. Freshman year. He’s been drunkenly kissing Combeferre since _freshman year_ , throwing himself at his best friend and forgetting about it the next morning. And Combeferre- he’s too nice to let it change things between them, thinking he’s letting Courfeyrac pretend it never happened to preserve his dignity. Courfeyrac does not deserve Combeferre. He could live a thousand lifetimes and never deserve Combeferre in a single one of them.

\---

As they’re getting ready the next morning, Combeferre pauses, glancing at Courfeyrac. “About the kisses- don't feel bad, or- I mean, I know they don’t mean anything.”

Courfeyrac pales, wanting to correct him and tell him that yes, yes they _really_ do, but he holds his tongue, and takes the out. “Yeah, what can I say? I’m a very affectionate drunk. And sober person, apparently.”

Combeferre smiles tightly at him before leaning back down to finish tying up his shoes. And that’s the end of that.

\---

New Zealand turns out to be _amazing_. Their Detour challenge includes driving vintage cars as fast as they safely can in an obstacle course, and Courfeyrac didn’t spend an irresponsible, privileged four years of prep school racing BMWs down winding, deserted roads without learning how not to crash and die, so that challenge is a cakewalk, even with Combeferre being the responsible driver he is and bringing down their time.

The landscape is gorgeous, the cars handle beautifully (okay, Courfeyrac has a thing for nice cars, he gets it from his sister, leave him alone), and the adrenaline pumping through his system as they drive to Piopio for their Roadblock is just about sufficient to block out any lingering embarrassment regarding just how long he’s been secretly pining for his best friend.

Their next clue is in the forests of Piopio, and they follow a mossy trail for almost ten minutes, stepping over roots and under hulking trees, and the whole thing seems eerily familiar. The familiarity is explained the second they open the Roadblock clue, which reads simply, W _ho wants to be an elf of Rivendell?_ and Courfeyrac remembers that the Lord of the Rings and Hobbit movies are filmed in New Zealand.

After reading the Roadblock, Courfeyrac pauses, hearing Combeferre inhale sharply next to him. Schooling his face as much as possible, he turns to look at his best friend, who’s staring at him in apprehension.

“A Tolkien themed challenge.” He says, almost reverently, then, more cautiously, “Do you…”

“I dunno,” Courfeyrac says thoughtfully. “I kinda wanna be an elf. You know how much I liked watching Lord of The Rings with you.”

To his credit, Combeferre only shows the smallest hint of soul-crushing disappointment. “Of course, well, if you really want to,” He trails off sadly, and Courfeyrac is a _terrible_ human being.

“I’m _kidding_.” Courfeyrac laughs, shoving at Combeferre. “I’m too short for an elf, anyway. Now hurry up before we lose our lead.” The smile that lights up Combeferre’s face is more than worth giving up the chance to do some cool dorky shit in a forest. Which is saying something.

\---

Watching Combeferre complete the Roadblock is like watching one of those Christmas movies where the poor kid gets everything he’s ever wanted under the tree, and gets to kiss his childhood sweetheart, _and_ knocks the bully on his ass in the snow. Combeferre’s _that_ happy. First they get him in costume; loose pants, a short cape, and a high collared tunic that _somehow_ manages to look flattering on him (though that may just be the love talking), then they give him parts of a bow to put together.

Courfeyrac sits on a rock beside Chantz, watching as Combeferre grips the bowstring tight between his fingers, jaw clenched tight as he bends the bow to string it, keeping his distance in case it snaps back at him. Courfeyrac stares at his hands, at the way they pull at the bowstring and slide over the surface of the bow. He has… _really_ nice hands.

Combeferre finishes stringing the bow before Chase does, partially because Chase somehow manages to snap his bow in half. He’s ‘taught’ to shoot an arrow (as if he didn’t take two semesters of archery) and shown the obstacles he will have to move through, the targets he’ll have to hit, and left at the starting line at the top of a rocky, slanting trail, the fight choreographer watching him from below. Even Chase stops to watch.

Combeferre inhales calmly, straightening to his full height and pulling the bowstring to his cheek.  A dark strand of hair falls between his eyes as he fires the first arrow, and it slices through the air, dust flying from the target as it shoves in, just a ring off-center. Combeferre doesn’t stop to see if it’s hit the target; he slips between the trees into the second position, and fires two more arrows, both of which sink into the center of their targets. Then he’s moving again, down the slanting hill and skidding to a stop at the bottom, where he hits the fourth target. Holding the bow up, he slides over one boulder and crouches behind it before rolling over another, landing on his knees and firing the last arrow, which is a perfect bulls-eye. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen in his entire goddamn life.

Courfeyrac is probably going to die, he thinks absently.  He can’t _really_ feel his face, so he’s more than likely having a stroke.

Combeferre gets to his feet, and the choreographer nods, somehow not looking at Combeferre like the action-hero sex-god he is, and just gestures for him to remove the costume before handing over the clue.

Combeferre takes the borrowed elven clothes off and strides over to where Courfeyrac is sitting in something that could be loosely described as a lust coma.

“I’ve never been so attracted to you in my entire life.” He says as soon as Combeferre is within earshot, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he can even think about stopping them, and he wonders if anyone can hear the way his heart is stuttering in his chest.

Fingers drifting up to push his hair out of his face, Combeferre rolls his eyes and says, “Keep it in your pants, Courf,” like Courfeyrac is teasing him. Like this is even vaguely a joking matter when Courfeyrac is in the New Zealand wilderness and horribly, painfully in love with Combeferre and doesn’t even have Joly and Grantaire to talk him through it and help him get outrageously drunk until he forgets love is a thing.

Combeferre cocks his head to the side, a smug grin on his face that Courfeyrac wants to kiss off. “C’mon,” He says, taking Courfeyrac’s hand and pulling him to his feet. “Let’s go win this thing.”

(They arrive to the Pit Stop first, but even so, Courfeyrac is so very, _very_ screwed)


	11. Leg 9: New Zealand to India

Combeferre in India is, if possible, even more detrimental to Courfeyrac’s wellbeing than he was in New Zealand. Combeferre in India is in his element, chatting with kids on the streets and greeting passerby, and he just… belongs. After finding their clue in the the _Times of India,_ they make their way to Thakur Bari in Jorasanko for the Detour _Hindu Art or Bengali Literature._ They, of course, pick literature, which requires them to pick up bundles of text books and transport them, via rickshaw school bus, to Victoria Institution High School and College. 

When they get the Roadblock clue, it asks, _Who’s Got All The Right Moves_?, and that’s where they run into trouble.

“‘ferre, it’s obviously a dance challenge. You hate dancing.”

Shaking his head, Combeferre looks back down at their Roadblock significantly. “Or it’s a strategy game challenge, in which case we should play to our strengths.”

Courfeyrac groans. “ _Or_ it’s just as straight-forward as it sounds.” Combeferre opens his mouth to argue again, and Courfeyrac decides it’s really just not worth the time they’re wasting. “Fine, fine, do the Roadblock, but I’m one-hundred percent going to say ‘I told you so’ if it turns out to be a dance challenge.”

It’s a dance challenge.

There’s a choreographer, two dozen or so background dancers, a film crew, and Combeferre, standing at the front, looking like he regrets every choice he’s ever made. It’s the snapchat opportunity of a lifetime, and Courfeyrac doesn’t have his phone. The world is a cruel place.

Combeferre gets an all-white outfit that really helps him stand out from the other dancers, and it’s actually unfair how nice it looks on him. One of the dancers works with him alone, going over the steps and movements with him. He looks ridiculous, though that’s mostly because he refuses to pretend he’s enjoying himself and maintains his apathetic expression for the entire rehearsal.

And then he steps up to the main stage.

It’s not… terrible.

He knows all of the dance moves, and he’s got decent enough rhythm, and he doesn’t look _too much_ like he wants to commit homocide, but it’s. Still incredibly adorable the way he wants to glare out at the people gathered to watch but has to pretend he’s enjoying himself instead. His feet stamp along to the rhythm and he turns and dips with the music and he looks so unbelievably not pleased, like a cat who’s just been dunked in water.

Courfeyrac, somehow, is _charmed_ by this. What is this man _doing_ to him?


	12. Leg 10: India to Turkey

The incentive waiting for them in Turkey is that, of the five teams, the two who arrive first at the Pit Stop will be staying at the Çirağan Palace Kempinski hotel, one of the best in Istanbul, the third and fourth to arrive will stay in one of Istanbul's hostels, sharing a dorm with other travelers. It's enough to get them running to their route markers just that much faster.

The Detour is between Columns and Kilos, and in Kilos, they collect a scale from a man in Yeni Cami, in the old Jewish quarter of Eminönü, and stand by the side of the street, asking to weigh people until they reach a combined total of 2,500 kilos. They're lucky that Combeferre grew up next door to an old Turkish woman who didn't have children, so she'd babysit Combeferre and speak to him almost exclusively in Turkish. He's not fluent, but he's proficient enough to make their lives a lot easier.

\---

 

The roadblock asks simply, " _Who Likes Heights?"_

"You do!" Courfeyrac says, shoving the paper at Combeferre, who sighs obligingly, rolls his eyes, and begins to read the instructions.

Combeferre, it turns out, has to climb an almost thirty foot ladder up the side of Halil Pasa Kulesi, a tower in the 'Fortress of Europe' then continue to climb to the top of a tower, find the key inside, then rappel down Sarlica Pasa Kules, another tower. Combeferre, to his credit, only gives Courfeyrac one muttered 'I hate you' before rushing off to the challenge.

Courfeyrac doesn't want to watch-  _shouldn't_ watch, if he wants to maintain any semblance of a normal heart rate- so he and Marius sit on a bench and pass the time by playing word games (book and movie titles that sound better with the last letter taken off, people who aren't evil but who have evil names, etc.).

They come in second, just behind Natalia and Gabrielle, and the hotel is  _amazing_. It's this beautiful, shining palace directly on the edge of the Bosphorus Straight, and the interior is adorned with glowing chandeliers and shining columns. Everything is golden and expensive and beautiful, and Courfeyrac feels like royalty. Eponine gives both of them a hug when they arrive, whispering, "I'm so happy we don't have to sleep in a hostel or airport terminal, you have  _no idea_." She gazes around the hotel, a smile spreading her cheeks. "You know when I was little, my parents owned a shitty motel, and I thought the best I was ever gonna get was being the head maid at something not even the tiniest fraction as nice as this. And now look." Courfeyrac wants to hug her again, and he does, swinging her from side to side tightly and pressing a loud kiss to her cheek, and she's smiling even as she pushes him away.

Marius, for his part, looks almost completely unfazed by the hotel's grandeur. Courfeyrac has bits and pieces of Marius Pontmercy's superhero origin story, but he occasionally gets the feeling key details have been omitted.

Combeferre lets out a low whistle when they open the doors to their room, which has floor to ceiling windows looking over the Bosphorus, and is bigger than their apartment back in Boston. "We should probably never tell Enjolras about this."

"Mm, definitely not," Courfeyrac says, having just taken a running leap onto one of the beds because he never progressed past the mental maturity of an eight year old. "Extravagantly decorated and no doubt horrendously priced hotel? In a  _palace_? We'd never hear the end of it."

\---

They have dinner over looking the Bosphorus, and spend most of the time making up ridiculous backstories for the unfriendly, disapproving rich people that surround them.

"She's the head of an international drug cartel." Eponine says, swirling her glass of wine idly, and nodding to the woman in her fifties at the table across from them, who is sitting next to a gorgeous younger man and neither of them look particularly happy. "Or at least, she thinks she is. Fabio next to her is the one  _really_ calling the shots."

Courfeyrac snorts back a laugh rather unattractively, and the couple glaring at each other behind him pause for a moment to glare at him instead. "Fabio? Really." _  
_

Eponine shrugs. "Of course."

\---

Later, after Eponine and Marius have retired to their own room, Combeferre and Courfeyrac stand out on their balcony (which, he should point out, is bigger than his  _room_ ), leaning against the railing and watching ships sail lazily through the dark waters.

The thing about the hotel is that, well, it's kind of horribly, aggressively romantic.  And Courfeyrac has been trying, he really, really has. He's in love with Combeferre, okay, but he's also his best friend, and he's been trying to be a best friend, and only that. Best friends don't think about sucking bruising marks into their friend's collarbones, or about how the scruff of their chin might feel between their thighs, or about waking their best friend up by peppering kisses along the lines of their tattoos, so Courfeyrac doesn't either. Or, he tries not to. And feels very bad whenever he does.

But. It's difficult, okay? It's really hard  _not_  to think about Combeferre like that when they're in this beautiful, golden-lit hotel, looking over the water, a warm breeze tickling at them, the memory of Combeferre's lips pressing at his at the forefront of his-

Courfeyrac's breath hitches. "Why did you kiss me back?" _  
_

Combeferre's voice trails off, and it hadn't even occurred to Courfeyrac that he'd been  _speaking_ , which is, admittedly, rude, but that's low on his list of priorities at the moment. "I- what?" Combeferre says uselessly, and Courfeyrac turns to look at him slowly.

"I kissed you, and I've apparently been kissing you for a while, and you said you knew it didn't mean anything so-" His brain feels like it's short-circuiting and racing at the same time. Combeferre doesn't do platonic kisses. Courfeyrac has always known this. He kisses Enjolras goodbye and hugs Combeferre, because Combeferre is okay with platonic cuddling, but kissing, for him, has always meant something more. And he kissed Courfeyrac  _back._ "If it didn't, why did you kiss me back?"

Combeferre sighs. "Do we have to-"

" _Yes_." Courfeyrac insists, because he wouldn't be able to stop thinking about this if he tried, won't be able to until Combeferre explains, because there's a tiny flicker of hope resting where the guilt and self-pity have taken up permanent residence, and if it's going to be extinguished, he wants to get it over with as quickly as possible.

Combeferre brings his hands up to his face to rub at his eyes, groaning reluctantly. "Lack of self control?" He says, then pulls his hands away, looking out over the water unblinkingly. "The first time you kissed me, at that godawful New Year's Eve party, I was so- I kissed you back, and we kissed for what felt like centuries, and I stopped it before it went any further, because I knew you'd been drinking, but I thought- it meant different things, to me and you." He inhales slowly."Which I didn't realize until you woke up the next morning and all you could talk about was the sorority and fraternity people whose numbers you had gotten, and I didn't know you couldn't remember, I just thought it didn't mean anything to you, which was- fine."

He pauses, breathing in a jagged breath, before amending, "No, honestly, it wasn't fine. It wasn't, because I had been in love with you since before I knew what that meant, back when you were the most popular person in fifth grade and everyone knew that once we got to middle school, you wouldn't be hanging out with science nerds like me anymore. But you-" His voice breaks off, and he shakes his head. "Anyway, you kissed me, and it was everything I ever wanted, and then in the morning, you took it away without a second thought, and I didn't want to make it seem like a big deal." He turns to look at Courfeyrac finally, and he looks hurt, and ashamed, and. "So the reason I kiss you back is that I can't not. I know you don't feel the same way, and I know you're drunk and I'm taking advantage, but- for a couple of seconds, I let myself forget."

And it's- a lot. To process. That he's been breaking Combeferre's heart for years and not even realizing or remembering after he's done it. That Combeferre was in love with him. Or. If he's incredibly lucky, and some higher power sees fit to give him everything he wants but definitely doesn't deserve, maybe still is. "I-"

"Please don't." Combeferre says simply. "I don't need an apology, or an explanation, okay? Just- promise me this won't change anything, and we don't have to talk about it again."

Courfeyrac exhales suddenly, in something that could maybe qualify as a hysterical imitation of a laugh, and stares at Combeferre. "Of course this changes things! Are you-" He watches as Combeferre's face shifts into something colder, harder. "I mean, my timeline's fuzzy here, and I only just became aware, but I think I've been in love with you for a really long time. At least, I know I'm in love with you now, and it doesn't feel like a new thing, like, you know when you reread a book, and you see a line of foreshadowing, and it's so obvious you're like 'how did i possibly not see that before, was I _high?'_  and it's like everything you-"

"Courfeyrac." Combeferre interrupts, wide-eyed, and swallows roughly. "Could you- give me a second to process this."

"Yeah, of course." He says, feeling lightheaded. "Take as much time as you need, I didn't mean to spring that on you like that, really I-"

"Please stop talking." 

Courfeyrac shuts his mouth so quickly his teeth clack together. He forgets, sometimes, that he has a tendency to ramble when he's nervous.

Combeferre takes a deep, shuddering breath, and pinches the bridge of his nose, the way he does when Courfeyrac or Enjolras is making his life more difficult than he thought possible. "You're- you have feelings for me." He says slowly, like the words are physically uncomfortable to say. "One word answer, please."

"Yes."

"You're sure."

" _Yes."  
_

_"_ This isn't just because you have an abiding love for movie moments and we're in an incredibly romantic hotel by the water and you've convinced yourself you're in a love story."

It's a valid question. Blunt, and a little rude, maybe, but valid. Combeferre knows him better than anyone in the world, except maybe Enjolras, and he knows the way his mind works. Courfeyrac inhales. "I wouldn't jeopardize our friendship by using you for a movie moment, Combeferre." He pauses, waiting for Combeferre to continue, but he seems content to stand, facing out into the water and hands braced against the railing, with his eyes shut tight, for the rest of the evening. "And if those are all the questions you have, I'd really like to know if you plan on kissing me or not so I can work on restarting my heart sometime soon. Because you're welcome to, you know. Anytime you want."

Combeferre doesn't open his eyes. "I'm processing."

"Right. Sure. Take your time." Courfeyrac tries being quiet, but the little flicker of hope is a forest fire in his chest and lungs and he thinks he's going to spontaneously combust if he doesn't  _do something. "_ The thing is, I'm really not good at being quiet. I mean, I can try, but-" He glances into their hotel room, huge and ridiculous and welcoming, and swallows roughly. "Maybe I should wait for you inside, yeah? Give you room to think in peace." He turns away from the bar, and barely makes half a step before there's a hand on his arm, pulling him, and a careful hand guiding his waist, turning him around and he's being kissed. Thoroughly. He doesn't have time to process, or think about anything other than how much he needs to get closer, needs  _more_. His arms wrap around Combeferre's neck and he arches up into the hard plane of Combeferre's body, and Combeferre's hands are warm and solid around his waist and Courfeyrac is. Courfeyrac might actually burst into flames and die, right there on the balcony.

He bites down on Combeferre's bottom lip and Combeferre  _moans_ into his mouth and Courfeyrac goes weak at the knees. As in, he literally almost falls to the ground, he's so overwhelmed by everything and Combeferre- he just sinks with him, before steadying an arm under Courfeyrac's thigh and lifting him up. Courfeyrac wraps his legs around Combeferre's torso out of instinct, he knows, because there is not a single part of his brain able to process that he needs to do anything but lick into Combeferre's mouth and find away to get him to moan like that as many times as possible.

Kissing Combeferre is- beyond any adjective Courfeyrac has ever heard, beyond perfect and mind-blowing and earth-shattering, beyond any combination of words. He could only ever describe it with a series of moans and vague hand gestures, and even that wouldn't fully capture the way their bodies press together, the way Combeferre's tongue makes Courfeyrac's breathless whimpers die in his throat.

They move at some point, probably, because he doesn't remember there being a bed on the balcony and suddenly he's on his back, lying on something impossibly soft as Combeferre finally pulls away to look at him. "Courf," He says, his voice rough and chest heaving breathlessly, and he's asking a thousand questions and Courfeyrac can't actually remember any words to answer him, so he just pulls him down and kisses him again, hoping it's enough.

**Author's Note:**

> i realize this was kind of a non-ending, but this fic was getting seriously long and i had to find a nice stopping point
> 
> if people want, i was thinking of writing the last two legs, maybe from Combeferre's point of view, as a part two??
> 
> idk anyway hope this was acceptable and not to ridiculously long to read


End file.
